


On the Head of a Wavering Pin

by Fictionista654



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1990s, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst, Castiel is 15, Charlie Ships It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Romance, Slow Burn, dean is 15, sam is 11
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-09-13 04:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 19,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9106585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionista654/pseuds/Fictionista654
Summary: Castiel knows that he's a monster. An angel from a fallen family, he lives off the life energy of humans. With more kills under his belt than most serial killers, Castiel is completely and utterly disgusted with himself. Dean is a hunter's son, trying to prove his worth. When Dean enrolls in the same school where an English teacher was found dead, he's desperate to solve the mystery and prove to his dad that he's a real hunter. And the boy who discovered the teacher's body--James Novak--seems to hold all the answers. Updates every Sunday!





	1. Chapter 1

The boy, Timothy, has a small button nose and the widest eyes Castiel has ever seen. He’s around the same age as Castiel, fourteen, and they share an algebra class. They’re walking through the forest, where the sunlight pools on the fallen leaves and the smell of fresh plants lingers the air.

It really is a beautiful day for murder.

“Is this where you saw the turtle?” asks Timmy, kneeling by an oak tree tagged with a slash of yellow. “This tree?”

Castiel remains standing and looks down at the boy. Timmy looks younger than he is, in his bright red hoodie and brown courderoys. When Castiel doesn’t join Timmy on the ground, Timmy looks back around. “Is this it?”

“Yes,” Castiel manages. “This is where I saw the frogs.”

“The frogs?” asks Timmy. “I thought they were turtles?”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Castiel, and then he grips both of Timmy’s shoulders. He’s a bully, Castiel reminds himself. He beat up Kevin. He’s not nice.

“Hey, what’re you doing—hey!” Timmy struggles, but Castiel has, quite literally, superhuman strength. “That hurts! Stop it!”

Castiel can feel every molecule inside this boy, each of them vibrating at such a beautiful frequency. For a moment, all that exists is this delectible boy and all his delicious molecules and, of course, his soul, bright as the sun at noon. Castiel begins to suck the boy in, and he buzzes and tingles. Timmy screams, a horrible, terrifying sound, and then there is a burst of light and Timmy is entirely consumed. Then, carefully, Castiel spits out the soul. The soul is the best part, and without it, Castiel never feels fully satisfied. Naomi always eats the soul, and when Castiel and Naomi feed together, she makes Castiel take the soul as well.

But Naomi is not here with him, and Timmy does not deserve oblivion. Castiel tracks the soul with his eyes as it darts through the trees. When it disappears, Castiel drops to the forest floor. He wishes he could have seen the soul ascend because now there’s the possibility it’ll stick around as a vengeful spirit. It’s never happened before, and Castiel suspects there are reapers looking out for him, doing their best to shuffle the spirits onward. Angels look out for their own, after all.

Castiel’s timer beeps, and he glances at his watch. 3:00. School’s been out for half an hour. Half an hour ago, Timmy was still alive. “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,” mutters Castiel as he brushes the dirt off the seat off his khakis. It’s hot for November, and he takes off his trench coat and slings it over his shoulder as he begins walking home.

They’ve lived in Newdale for three months now, since the beginning of the school year. It’s a well-sized county on the east coast, about two hours away fom the sea. Picking places to stay is almost an art—they can’t be too large because then you run the risk of running into other predators. They can’t be too small because after a couple of disappearances, the entire place is on high alert. So Newdale is perfect.

Timmy is Castiel’s first feed here, actually. He waits as long as he can to eat, and has managed to cut down to about six people every year. In the meantime he feeds on animals like deer or stray cats. But there’s something about humans that can’t be replaced.

He emerges from the woods on Pine Street, right by his house. The lawn is freshly mowed, and Castiel breathes in the heady scent of cut grass before walking up the front pathway and unlocking the front door.

It smells like cleaning products inside, cleaning products and wood. Naomi’s in the kitchen typing away at her laptop. She has a successful business as an occult author, and rakes in enough money for their moves. Well, she pads it with credit card fraud and embezzlement, but it works. When Castiel walks in, her nostril’s quiver.

“You’ve fed,” she says, shutting her computer. “Good.”

Castiel goes to the fridge and pulls it open. There isn’t much human food in there, but after spending almost six years eating the stuff, Castiel has a taste for it. 

Especially peanut butter, which they have in bulk. He selects a new jar and a spoon and settles down at the table.

“I wish you wouldn’t eat that crap, Castiel,” says Naomi. “It’s not good for you.”

“It tastes good,” he says around a mouthful. 

Naomi wrinkles her nose. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, please. It’s not civilized. Are we humans or are we angels?”

We’re not angels, thinks Castiel. We’re abominations. We’re God’s greatest screw-up. He gets up from the table and carries the peanut butter up the stairs into his room. It’s sparse for a teenager’s bedroom: there’s a bed with blue sheets the color of his eyes, a white Ikea desk and dresser set, and a bookshelf packed with books

“Hello,” says Castiel, to no one. “I’m home.”

He puts the peanut butter on the desk and collapses onto his desk chair.

He sticks another spoonful of peanut butter in his mouth and tries to forget how wonderful Timmy tasted. When he’s sucked the last of the peanut butter butter from the spoon, he drops it back in the jar and thumps his head onto his desk. 

“I’m ready for my dusty death,” he mutters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for a mildly graphic description of a dead body. It's not worse than anything you'd see on the show.
> 
> Will exchange tickets to Rogue One for kudos. The tickets are invisible and intangible, but you can use your imagination. Plus, don't pass up the opportunity to tell the ticket collector "you too!" when he tells you to enjoy the movie.
> 
> The first 5 chapters are already written, so don't worry about this being a WIP! I update every Sunday.

At school the next day, there are already missing child posters of Timmy. Alexandra, Timmy’s older sister, is pinning them up. “I just need him to come home,” she tells her friend. “Like, I would do anything. Actually anything.”

Castiel averts his eyes and hurries to the sophomore locker bay. All the lockers are the same dull blue, but almost everyone has personlized the insides of their lockers. The boy to the right of Castiel has a miniature basketball hoop on the inside of the door, and the girl to the left has a collage of pictures covering every spare inch of her locker.

Castiel prefers to keep his locker neat. He has one of those hanging ladders, in a shade of blue similar to the locker’s, and his books are neatly lined up and down it. There’s nothing to suggest anything about its owner’s personality. That’s the way Castiel likes it. At the end of the school year, he and Naomi will be moving on. He doesn't need to leave detritus behind him.

“Hey, James,” says a bright voice, and it takes Castiel a moment to react. To cover their tracks, Naomi switches their names around, but sometimes it’s hard for Castiel to remember what his _nom du jour_ is. The bright voice turns out to be Charlie, the red-headed girl in his English class, and his only friend at school. “Did you do the _Separate Peace_ essay yet? I wanted to write about homoerotic subtext but Mrs. Penola said that I had to do the required prompt. She said our next essay we can pick our own thesis. It sucks, though.”

“Homoerotic subtext?” asks Castiel.

“Um, duh,” says Charlie. “Have you _read_ that book?”

“Yes,” he lies. He’d gotten halfway through, but the guilt packed into the book reminded him too much of his actual guilt.

“So I’m writing about the wartime mentality and stuff,” she chirps. “The wartime mentality is so cool, though! I mean, not cool. War’s scary. But actually, have you ever played video games?”

Castiel realizes that he’s been followng Charlie down the hall, almost all the way to their English class. Her vitality has that effect on him, makes him forget lose track of his surroundings. She’d be a very good meal, but Castiel isn’t going to eat her. Timmy was a bully. He didn’t deserve to die, but he wasn’t the nicest person, either. Charlie _is_ the nicest person. The nicest person Castiel knows, anyway.

“Hey,” she prods. “James? Video games? Do you game?”

Castiel cocks his head. “Do you mean _game_ as in video games, or game in the general sense? In the general sense I suppose I do play games. I enjoy Monopoly. But if you are referring to video games, no, I do not 'game.'"

Charlie throws back her head and laughs. “James, we've talked about the air quotes before!” She pushes open the classroom door and lets him go through first. They take their usual seats in the back.

"Was this not an appropriate moment for air quotes?" asks Castiel. Sometimes he worries his inability to perfectly mimic and understand human behavior means he'll never be able to live a human life, a life without killing humans for food. He had thought that he understood air quotes, but apparently not.

“It's fine," says Charlie. "You almost got it. And I was talking about video games. I could teach you how to play, if you want,” says Charlie.

Castiel furrows his brow. “Is _play_ the same euphamism as _game_? Because then, no. I don’t like violence.”

“They don’t have to be violent,” says Charlie, although she sounds a little bit doubtful. “Mario Kart isn’t violent. We could play that. It’s a game where you drive cars.”

“I don’t understand,” says Castiel. “If the objective of the game is to drive, why not go in a car?”

“It’s _racing_ ,” says Charlie. “And we can’t drive yet, so it's something we can't do in real life. How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” says Castiel. “I’ll be fifteen next month.”

“Suffering Sappho!” squeals Charlie. “I turn fifteen next month, too!”

“Suffering Sappho? What does an ancient Greek poet have to do with anything?” asks Castiel. He’s not exactly up-to-date on slang, but he’s pretty sure he’s never heard anyone say _suffering Sappho_ before.

“It’s Wonder Woman’s catchphrase,” explains Charlie. “When something surpises her, she’ll be all, _suffering Sappho_ , bitches! And it’s actually such a good catch phrase for her because Wonder Woman is totes bisexual.”

“And Sappho is known for her female lovers,” says Castiel.

“You bet your butt she is!” Charlie blows strands of hair out of her face. “She’s the coolest.”

The first bell rings, and the class fills almost immediately. Mrs. Penola, the English teacher, often sends children to the office for first offences. Castiel can’t really blame her. Unless tachers assert themselves, the children can be hell-spawn.

Today, though, Mrs. Penola doesn’t show up. After about fifteen minutes, the students enact a mass exodus and stream from the room, battered copies of _A Separate Peace_ stuck underneath their arms.

“Are you coming?” asks Charlie as she gathers up her stuff.

“Yes,” says Castiel, “I’m just going to get a spare notebook.” Mrs. Penola keeps them in the supply closet for anyone who needs them. The lock on the closet door is broken and has been for most of the school year, so it isn’t a surprise when it swings outward easily. It takes a moment for Castiel’s eyes to adjust to the inside of closet, but when they do, he blanches.

“Um, Charlie?” he asks. His voice is trembling. It’s funny, really, that this should startle him so much. It’s just that, when he feeds, he doesn’t leave a body. He’s never seen human remains before.

“What is it?” Charlie comes up behind him and flicks on the closet’s light. “Suffering Sappho,” she whispers.

The woman inside the closet has been gutted, and her intestines trail out of her in wormy spirals. Her glasses are smashed into her face, and her eyes are filled with blood. She smells sharp and cloying and metallic, and all Castiel can think of is the fact that this is the outfit she was wearing yesterday, that yesterday she dressed herself and now she can never dress herself again.

“James, James,” chants Charlie, pulling on his arm. “James, we have to get out of here, we have to get someone.”

Castiel advances on Mrs. Penola’s body and kneels by her head. There are runes carved into her forhead. Castiel uses the hem of his shirt to rub the blood off her face. The runes are Enochian, he realizes. One word.

_Run._

 

 

Dean Winchester is just a little bit sick of moving. “Back in freaking black,” he mutters, shoving his suitcase into the back of the Impala. He loves the Impala, he does, but he was _finally_ getting somewhere with Lauren. But there’s a job in Newdale, and a job’s a job.

Really, Dean’s mostly pissed that his dad won’t let him split, go handle a werewolf case in Louisiana. He wouldn’t mind moving he were going to _do_ something, but this is probably gonna be a salt’n’burn, and Dean doesn’t want to have to enroll in a new school and, shit, meet new people, and this situation just blows.

“Dean?” pipes Sammy. “You okay?”

Dean wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans and leans down so he’s face-to-face with his little brother. Sam’s a good kid, a sixth-grader who knows too much about the dark. He’s smart, too. Already on a twelfth-grade reading level.

“Yeah, I’m good, Sammy,” says Dean, and he slams shut the Impala trunk. “You excited, little buddy?”

“I’m not a _litle buddy_ ,” grumps Sam.

“Whatever.” Dean yanks open Baby’s back seat and gestures. “You gonna get in, bitch?”

“Jerk.” But Sammy does get in, clutching his backpack. When Dean’s sure Sammy’s buckled himself, he gets into the passenger seat and waits for Dad to get out of the motel with the last of their shit.

“What’s the case this time?” asks Sam.

Dean shrugs. “Kind of thin. Some kids found their teacher in her supply closet, guts everywhere. There were some sigils in her forehead. Police think it’s Enochian.”

“The language of the angels?” asks Sam. “Angels aren’t real.”

“That’s why it’s thin. Don’t know if any real supernatural assholes would use a fake language. Could just be a crazy son-of-a-bitch who gets his rocks off ganking little old English teachers. There's also a missing kid, though. Fun little bonus.”

“Are we going to the English teacher's school?” asks Sam.

“Why?” demands Dean. “You scared?”

“No,” mutters Sam. “I’m just curious.”

“Well, probably,” says Dean. “Don’t know what other school we’d go to.”

“I hope I make friends,” says Sam, softly.

“Hey, you’re the best,” says Dean sternly. “You’ll have friends up the wazoo. Don’t you worry.”

The motel door slams shut, and John lumbers up to the car with their stuff. The trunk is full, so he loads it into the back before swinging into driver’s seat. “You boys ready?” he grunts.

“Sure are,” says Dean. The thumping of AC/DC blasts through the car, and Dean rests his head against the car window, settling in for the ride.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It’s dark by the time they reach the motel, and Dean passes out almost right away. He’s woken up by a bright band of sunlight slanting through the motel room window and directly into his eyes.

“Finally,” says Sam when Dean sits up. “I was waiting forever.”

“What time is it?” croaks Dean.

“Eight-thirty-seven,” says Sam, gesturing at the clock. “We have to go enroll in school, Dean."

Dean groans and thumps backward. “Where's dad?"

“He got in his fed suit and left, like, two hours ago.”

“Shit. Okay.” Dean tumbles out of bed and forces himself through his morning routine. When he stumbles out of the bathroom, hair wet and clothing on, he finds Sam at the tiny kitchen table, eating strawberry Pop-Tarts.

“Okay, kid,” says Dean, snagging the Pop-Tart box. “Let’s go to school.”

 

After finding Mrs. Penola, Castiel had to undergo interrogation by the police. Well, perhaps _interrogation_ is not quite the right word, but it was scary. It’s funny, but with all the murdering he does, the police have never questioned him before.

"Truly a renegade," he mutters to himself.

"You say something?" asks Charlie. It's lunchtime, and they're sitting on the bleachers by the football field. The sky is gray today and seems to be hanging lower than usual.

"No," says Castiel. He's worried because two days ago, when he told Naomi about the word carved into Mrs. Penola's forehead, she'd merely looked determined.

"We're not running," she'd said, and that had been that. But running from what? And why not? Why couldn't they run? Castiel didn't what to upset whoever-- _what_ ever--had killed Mrs. Penola.

"It's crazy, isn't it?" says Charlie. "Mrs. Penola dead. It's not really like video games."

"No," says Castiel.

Charlie lies down flat on her back and stares up at the sky. "In video games it's super cool. You're like _blam-blam, bitches_ , and then they're like, _oh shit, it's Codex_ , and then I'm like, _damn right!_ and then I _blam-blam_ them some more. But this wasn't a _blam-blam_ , thing, James. This was cold-blooded murder. And did you see what they wrote in her forehead? It was Enochian for _run_."

Castiel jerks upright from his slouch. "Enochian? How did you know?"

"Um, James?" Charlie circles a lazy finger around to point directly at herself. "Mega geek here. I know _all_ the cool languages. I mean, most of them. Fluent in Qenya _and_ Sindarin, bitches."

"Are Qenya and Sindarin occult languages?" asks Castiel, a little confused. Naomi has, if not taught him all the languages ever spoken or written, at least taught him _of_ most of them. He doesn't recal Qenya or Sindarin making the list.

"Dude!" says Charlie, sitting up. "Elvish? You know, Tolkien?"

"Tolkien? Is that another language?"

Charlie's jaw drops open. "You know, JRR Tolkien? I mean, the feminist in me hates him, but the geek in me is all _aaaah_ about him! He's famous! Even non-geeks like you should know who _Tokien_ is. I'd go straight for him! I mean, I wouldn't, gross. And also he's dead. But, like, Tolkien!"

"So he is a fiction author," clarifies Castiel.

" _The_ fiction author," says Charlie. "One day I'm going to write something even better, though. Don't tell him or he'll be jealous."

"Do you have a channel of communication to the dead?" asks Castiel. He hadn't been aware that Charlie could access the afterlife. Charlie seems to think he's joking though, and laughs.

"That would be sick, right? Then maybe we could talk to poor Mrs. Penola. Have her give her last words."

Castiel frowns. By know he knows Charlie doesn't actually mean it, but the idea is tempting. There must be a spell for communication with the dead somewhere. And he'd like a chance to converse with Mrs. Penola. Then he could solve the murder and know who's telling him to run. Because by now, he's ninety-nine percent sure the message was for him. Who else can read Enochian? Besides Charlie, of course, but besides for other gamers she's "creamed," he doesn't think she has any enemies.

"Are you James Novak and Charlotte Bradbury?" A grizzled man in a neat suit and tie is standing at the bottom of the bleachers. Deep lines run through his face.

"The police already talked to us," says Charlie, stumbling down the bleachers. Castiel follows close behind.

"Well, I'm not the police." The man flashes a badge at them, and Castiel glimpses the letters FBI. "I'm Agent Bonham, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation." He pulls out a tiny notebook and a stunted pencil. "I just want to ask you a few questions."

"Sure," says Charlie.

"Have you noticed anything odd in school lately, especially near where you found the body? Cold spots, lights flickering?"

Cold spots? Lights flickering? Federal agent, Casiel's ass. This man is a hunter. Even Charlie looks a little confused.

"What would that stuff have to do with a murder?" she asks. "Oooh, unless it's a ghost murderer?"

Agent Bonham's mouth drops open slightly. "Could you answer the question, please?"

Charlie purses her lips as she thinks. "I don't remember anything weird like that, Agent. Sorry."

"What about you, James? Can you speak?"

It takes a moment for Castiel to work up the courage to speak to the hunter. "I don't remember anything unusual, sir."

"Okay. Just one more question. Either of you friends with a kid by the name of Thomas Davidson?"

Castiel loses all feeling in his hands and feet. His knees give out, and he sits with a thud on the lowest bleacher. "S-sorry," he stutters. "I'm distressed at his absence."

"I know him," Charlie grumps. "He was a dick to me, said girls shouldn't read comics."

Castiel hadn't known that. Funnily enough, it doesn't make him feel any better about killing him.

"You know he's missing, right?" asks Agent Bonham.

"I didn't do anything!" blurts Charlie. "Oh, geez, that sounds suspicious, right? But, yeah, I knew that he was missing. Doesn't stop him from being a dick, though."

"She really didn't do anything," assures Castiel. _I did._

Agent Bonham passes them cards. "Call me if you remember anything. I might have more questions later, so be ready." And he goes stumping back up the field.

"I've never met anyone in the FBI before!" whispers Charlie. "I mean, I hacked into their database that one time, but I didn't _meet_ any of them."

 _You still haven't_. Castiel pulls his trenchcoat tighter around his body. It's not just the cold November air making him shive. He's never met a hunter before. He has to tell Naomi. She'll probably kill Agent Bonham--if that's his name--but it's not as though Castiel hasn't instigated many other murders. Child murders. It's not as though this is so much worse.

Once a murderer, always a murderer.

It's the period after lunch, by the time Dean's got his schedule sorted out. He's supposed to be in sophmore chem in Room 107. He wanders around a little before realizing all the one-oh classes are downstairs. 107 is a lab classroom, three rows of lab desks with two desks in each row. There's a sink between each desk, and one of them is leaking.

There's a woman with blond hair at the front of the classrom. She gives him a nervous smile. "You must be Dean," she says. "I'm Ms. Bartlett. There's a free spot for you next to Charlotte."

A red-headed girl with a bright smile nodded at him. After a moment, Dean smiled and nodded back. He made his way around the desks to where Charlotte was sitting.

"Don't feel any pressure to take notes today, Dean," says Mrs. Bartlett. "We'll come up with a time to meet, okay? So. Where were we, guys?"

"Hey," whispers Charlotte. She has a smattering of freckles and kind, excited eyes. "You can call me Charlie."

"Dean," says Dean.

"Um," says Charlie, "I know. Mrs. Bartlett said your name when you walked in."

Dean shrugs. He doesn't care enough about this school to feel embarrased. Then he remembers something his dad told him.

"Wait, are you Charlie Bradbury?"

She grins. "Guilty."

"You discovered the English teacher, right?"

Her face falls. "Yeah. It was kind of a sucky experience."

"Your first dead body?" asks Dean, before he can think. But she surprises him.

"No. But it was definitely the goriest." She swishes her mouth to one side of her face. "It was bad, Dean."

He nods in what he thinks is an encouraging way, but Charlie doesn't say anything else. Dean spends the rest of the period adding to the graffiti mural on the side of the desk. After class, though, Charlie's back to her perky self.

"What class do you have next?" she asks. "I have history."

Dean checks his schedule. "Me, too. Mr. Stander."

"Oh!" Charlie cheers. "Same! And my friend James has that class also."

"James was there too, right?" asks Dean, as nonchalantly as possible. "When you, um, discovered the body?"

Charlie stiffens. "Yeah," she says, "he was."

Dean can take a hint and backs off. Not worth losing a valuable source of info by shooting off at the mouth. He's not going to fumble this.

The history classroom is upstairs, and the walls are almost entirely covered by an elaborate timeline. Charlie and James have seats right underneath the Crusades, and Charlie makes Dean sit next to them.

"James, Dean. Dean, James," says Charlie. "Dean's new. James is too. He started this year."

James is a solemn-looking boy with hooded blue eyes and messy black hair. He's cute looking, thinks Dean. But Dean has a habit of suppressing feelings that aren't safe to feel, so he tears his eyes away from James's chapped pink lips and focuses on the board. The teacher hasn't shown up, though, so all Dean is looking at is blank space.

"Did you just move here?" asks James. He has a surprisingly deep, gravelly voice.

"Yeah," says Dean. James narrows his eyes and cocks his head. He looks kind of like a puppy.

"Are you related to Agent Bonham?" asks Castiel.

 _Oh, shit._ Dean's been made. Gotta think fast. "No," he grunts. "Who's Agent Bonham?"

Charlie's giving James a weird look. "He's this FBI guy investigating Mrs. Penola's murder."

"Do I look like him?" asks Dean. He does, actually. Has his dad's mouth and face-shape. Not too shocking that James would've made the connection. This particular shit has hit the fan before--one in a Wendigo case in the Rockies, John introduced himelf to the principal as Dean's father and ran into him again as Officer Plant.

"Yes," says James. He's examining Dean's face in a way that makes him _mucho_ uncomfortable. "Your lineaments are similar."

Whatever the hell those are.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think so far? I'd love to hear feedback--positive or negative <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I hope you enjoy :) If you like, please leave a Kudos. If you don't like, please tell me why so I can get better. I appreciate all feedback! Also, just, like, have an amazing day!

That night, Castiel wakes up starving. He'd gone to bed nervous because, in the end, he hadn't told Naomi about Agent Bonham. He's sure that Dean is Agent Bonham's son, and he doesn't want Dean to die. He doesn't want _anyone_ to die.

But he's so hungry. His powers are crackling along the surface of his skin, begging him to use them, to eat, to feed, to satisfy himself. His wings itch to be unfurled. Usually Castiel carries them in a separate dimension, but right now they want out.

The wings are a cruel, vestigial reminder of eons ago, when Castiel and his ilk were true angels of the Lord. They were Ishim, or the men-angels, who were created in human form. Others called them Eshim, the flames. They were burning men, men of power. But when God left the heavens, it became harder to maintain, and the fifth heaven was let go. The Ishim descended, and they were hungry.

And Castiel is hungry now. He is nothing but hunger, a great empty space that swirls through him, demanding to be filled. Demanding to be fed.

He pulls his trench coat over his pajamas and, with a flick of his hands, the window shoots open, and Castiel unfurls his wings. He flies up, up into the sky. Newdale spreads out below him, a tantalizing picnic spread. The sparks of life within the houses pulse brightly, and he swoops down to land on a roof. The shingles are slippery, and Castiel almost falls, but his wings right him. He smashes through a window and into a master bedroom. There are a man and woman snuggled next to each other, and they get tangled in the sheets as they startle upright. The woman flicks on her bedside lamp.

They look so cofnused, so afraid, but Castiel is so hungry, so hungry he can't think, can't _think_ , can only feel the hunger, the endless, consuming hunger, driving him to consume so he will no longer be consumed by this hunger this hunger it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts

When he's finished eating them, he lets the souls go.

He stands in the bedroom for a long time after. He's still so hungry, especially without the satisfaction of the souls.

There's another life somewhere in the house, burning brightly. Castiel leaves the master bedroom and creeps down the hall to another bedroom. He materializes on the other side of door. The room is dark, but Castiel has superior vision. There's a girl in the bed, her chest rising and falling slowly. She's a sweaty sleeper, and her hair is plastered to her face. Her cheek is a fevered pink.

Castiel treads the top of her bed and wipes the hair out of her face. She can't be more than six, he realizes. About the age he was when when Naomi took him from his human foster mother. This girl is so precious-looking, so innocent . . .

Her eyes flicker open. She sees his wings almost immediately, and her mouth falls open. "Are you an angel?" she asks.

Castiel can't speak. His throat constricts like a vice around his voice. He's not an angel, not the way an angel should be. He's killed this girl's parents. And he came into her room to kill her, too, but she's so young. _Timmy was young, too._ And so were most of Castiel's kills. He took them from schools, mostly. But none of them were ever this young. None of them were ever this innocent.

But innocence is not a measure of worth. Just because Timmy was twice as old as this girl doesn't mean he should have been killed.

"Are you okay?" asks the girl. She puts a hand on his face. "You're crying."

Castiel nods and tries to find words. "I've done something bad," he whispers. "I can't ever be forgiven."

"I hit people," says the girl. "I hit all the people. I had to say sorry. So does Elmo sometimes when he does stuff wrong."

"Who is Elmo?" asks Castiel. The name is familiar, but he can't place it. The girl gawks at him.

"I talk to Elmo every day on the phone sometimes," she says.

"Oh, so he's a friend."

The girl nods. "He's my best friend except for Sandra. My name is Sandra, too. We're both Sandra, so we call me Sandra S. at school and she gets to be just Sandra but sometimes Sandy."

"Sandy's a good name," says Castiel.

"What's your name?" asks Sandra.

"I'm Castiel," says Castiel.

"Castiel, do you want to sit down maybe?" Sandra pulls her blankets around her and sits cross-legged. After a moment, Castiel sits beside her.

 _I've killed her parents,_ thinks Castiel. _I've killed her parents, and now I am having a conversation with her. I am evil. I am evil._

It's been so long since Castiel had parents, real parents. He was a found baby, nestled into a seat in a police station, discovered by Officer Daphne Allen. She and her husband Emmanuel had adopted him. For six years, he had thought he was human.

"If you're an angel, do you know God and stuff?" says Sandra.

Castiel shakes his head. "No one has seen God in a very long time."

Sandra thinks about this. "Oh. That's sad. He should come back so we can hug him actually."

"Actually, that's a good idea," murmurs Castiel. "I think he should come back, too. Sandra, I need to tell you something."

Sandra nods. "Tell me."

"I . . . your parents aren't here anymore."

Sandra looks startled. "Where are they?"

"I took them," says Castiel. He's actually crying now, tears dripping off his face and onto his lap. "I took them to Heaven."

Sandra's begins to cry, too. "I want them back!"

"I'm sorry," says Castiel, and he disappears.

 

"Well, boys," says John, over a toast and jam breakfast in the motel room, "this is definitely our kind of thing."

"Wa'sit?" asks Sam, through a mouthful of toast.

"What is it?" translates Dean. "What happened?"

"I talked to Officer Gordon this morning. Jonathon and Susan Soburn disappeared from their beds last night. Their daughter, Sandra, says she was visited by an angel who told her he was taking her parents to heaven."

"Angels aren't real," Dean grits out. If angels were real, they'd have looked out for his mom. She wouldn’t be dead right now.

"Not saying angels are real, son, just that a kid claims she's seen one."

"What did she say it looked like?" asks Dean. Might as well figure out what the hell she was _actually_ talking to.

"It was dark in the room. She couldn't see so well. Said it was a guy, had two wings, really big. 'Bout the size of her room. And he had messy hair, but she couldn’t make out much. It was dark in there.”

"I believe in angels," says Sammy, suddenly. Dean and John look over at him. "What?" he asks. "We see all this other stuff. Why not angels? That'd be cool."

"Considering this 'angel' did something to her parents, I don't know how cool it is," says John. "Stay sharp, Sam. Don't let this so-called angel distract you."

"I won't," mumbles Sam.

"Could be a reaper," suggests Dean. Wouldn't be the craziest thing they've faced. Not even top ten. They've seen all kind of wacked shit.

"Could be," agrees John. "You boys want a ride to school?"

Dean shakes his head. "James Novak asked if I was your son. Don't want to raise too many red flags."

"Sure," John says. "And there's something fishy about that boy. I want you to look into him, Dean."

A burst of pride bubbles inside Dean's stomach. "Sure thing, Dad. Let's go, Sammy. We have work to do."

 

It's been three days since Mrs. Penola was found, one day since Dean enrolled. Nothing odd has happened at school since he's been here, but it's still high school. Not exactly the happiest place on earth.

Charlie meets Dean at his locker. "Have you seen James?" she asks. "He's not at his locker."

"He always here on time?" says Dean. Seems kind of crazy to him. Hell, the only reason Dean's on time today is because he wanted to see James.

"Yes," says Charlie. "Pretty much."

"He your only friend?" says Dean. He feels bad immediately, but Charlie doesn't look too upset.

"Girl geeks aren't exactly popular," she says. "The dudes geeks here are sexist orcs. They don't get how _awesome_ queens are. And everyone's just kind of mean to me, you know? Not James, though. He's the coolest."

"Hey, I'm sorry," says Dean. "I shouldn’t have--"

"You're right," she agrees. "You shouldn't have. It was rude. But the Queen of Moondoor is merciful."

"Oh . . . good, then." Dean shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot.

"So no James?" says Charlie.

"No James," agrees Dean.

Charlie sighs. "Bye, then." She turns and starts off down the hall, her bright hair swinging behind her.

Dean rests his head on his closed locker. James is definitely suspicious. Should he track him down? "Hey, Charlie!" Dean calls. Charlie turns around and looks at him quizzically.

"Do you know where James lives?"

"I walked home with him once," she says. Her face lights up. "Do you want to go find him? Adventure time! Let's go!"

"Don't you have class?" asks Dean.

"Don't _you_ have class?" she counters.

"Good point."

"Let's go."

 

Castiel is petrified. Naomi's going to hear about the two parents who disappeared from their bed and the angel who comforted their daughter. Who knows what she’ll do to Castiel for being so sloppy. He fabricates an illness so Naomi will let him stay in bed and listens as her car rolls out of the driveway.

He has decided that he will never move from this bed again. If he never leaves, he can never kill anyone else. And still the hunger lashes at him, demands to be satiated.

"Go away," he says out loud. "I'm not going to kill anyone else."

It doesn't help.

The doorbell rings, and Castiel jumps. What if Sandra has identified him and the hunter is here to kill him? The only angel blade Castiel has ever seen is the one Naomi keeps strapped to her side, underneath her blouse, but that doesn't mean the hunter can't have one also.

Castiel materializes at the bottom of the stairs and glances through the peephole. It's not the older hunter but the younger one. He's with Charlie, though, so Castiel doesn't think death is on the menu. He opens the door.

"Wow, James, you don't look so good," says Charlie, stepping over the threshold without being invited. Castiel's pretty sure this is not the proper etiquette, but he doesn't say anything.

"Hey," says Dean. "Nice place you got here."

"It's not mine," croaks Castiel. He clears his throat. "It's not mine. It's my mother's."

Dean swaggers past Castiel and into the kitchen. As Castiel follows, he's intensely aware of how nice Dean's legs look in his jeans. Suddenly, he wishes he weren't wearing pajamas.

"This all you have in your fridge?" asks Dean. He's staring into it and frowing.

"We usually get take-out," says Castiel. It's not so far from the truth.

"Huh." Dean shuts the fridge.

"Would you like something to eat?" asks Castiel. "I can cook a little."

"Slow down there, Julia," says Dean.

Castiel cocks his head. "My name is James."

"No," laughs Charlie, "he means like Julia Child."

Castiel still doesn't understand. "Is Julia a child?"

Dean opens the cupboard above the sink, and his shirt rises up as he does so. For a moment, Castiel can see a strip of golden skin before Dean drops back down. He ambles over to the pantry doors and pulls them open.

"Nothing in here, either," he complains. "James, seriously, are you starving?"

 _Always_. "No." Castiel sits down at the table and rests his head in his palms. Charlie takes the seat next to him.

"Are you okay, James? We thought that maybe you were sick."

Dean finally takes a jar of peanut butter and a spoon and joins them at the table. "You sick, James?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I'm just tired." His eyes catch Dean's over the peanut butter. Dean's eyes are truly gorgeous: a striking emerald green shot through with gold. They're framed with thick eyelashes. It makes Castiel's stomach warm in a way it has never been before.

 _Don't get too close,_ he warns himself. _Dean would not hesitate to kill you if he knew what you really are._

"So," says Dean, "this's your first year at Newdale High, right? Live somewhere before this?"

Castiel's stomach jolts when he realizes Dean's talking to him. "Um, yes," he manages. "And I lived in Manhattan before this." It's a lie, but it's what James Novak's records say. Lived in New York, homeschooled for most of his life.

"That's cool," says Dean. "Never been to Manhattan. Seems like a cool place, though. Lots of chicks."

"Hey!" Charlie flicks him.

"It is a . . . cool place," says Castiel. "I enjoyed it."

"That so," says Dean. He's watching Castiel closely, and it's making him uncomfortable. "What was your favorite part?"

 _Um . . ._ "The park!" says Castiel. "Ahem. The park. I enjoyed the park. There were ducks. And honey bees. I like honey bees."

"He likes honey bees," says Dean, as if to an invisible observer. Then, to Castiel: "What else you like about it?"

Castiel casts about for anything he's ever heard about Manhattan. "I frequented the library." Is Dean testing him? Dean must be testing him.

"I didn't know you lived in Manhattan," says Charlie. "One of my gaming friends lives there. Firestarterdragon007. She edits this awesome fanzine. Anyhoo."

"I likely did not meet Firestarterragon007," says Castiel. Privately he wonders what kind of parent would burden their child with such a name.

"You make friends there, though?" asks Dean.

Castiel looks down through the frosted glass table-top. He can just make out the dark grout in blue linoleum floor beneath it. "No," he admits. It's the closest thing to the truth. Charlie is not his first friend, but it is rare for someone to be so persistent in befriending him. Usually his recalcitrance and grave demeanor alienate potential friends.

"Oh," says Dean. "How long did you live there?"

"My entire life," says Castiel. 

"But no friends," says Dean, making a swiping motion with his hand. Charlie shoves him.

"Shut up," she hisses. Castiel's immediately thankful to her for stopping this awkward line of questioning. Dean seems to realize how far he's gone because he gives a short nod and stands up.

"Thanks for having me, James. I gotta go."

Charlie waits for the front door to shut before she turns to Castiel. "I'm so sorry, James. I didn't think he'd be such a dick."

"No, it's okay," says Castiel, turning around and staring absently at the door Dean had just walked through. "Thank you for sticking up for me."

Charlie says something else, but Castiel can't focus. He hopes that whatever he told Dean just now was enough alleviate Dean's suspicions, but he suspects not. One can hope, though.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

"That kid James is _weird_ , man." Dean dumps mac'n'cheese on the motel table. "Eat up, Sammy."

Sam pokes at it with a battered fork. "What this white stuff?"

"That, my friend, is marshmallow fluff." Dean dumps a portion into a chipped ceramic bowl and slides it over to Sam.

"Gross, Dean." Sam takes a tentative bite. "Yuck."

"Eat it, bitch." Dean forks out a portion for himself and digs in. Sometimes you need a little variety. Sure, mac'n'cheese'n' fluff might not be upper crest, but it's not for the friggin' queen.

"So what were you saying about James?" asks Sammy. He's doing more pushing around of his food than eating it, so Dean decides this has been a failed experiment.

"James, ah, he's just weird. He said he lived in Manhattan his whole life, but he didn't make any friends. That's _weird_."

"We don't have any friends," points out Sam.

"That's different," says Dean. "We don't stand still. We're rolling stones, Sammy."

"What else is weird?" says Sam.

Dean shrugs. The motel smells weird and musty, and all of the sudden all he wants to do is get out.

"Let's go for a walk."

"No thanks," says Sam. "There's this show everyone in my grade is watching, and it's on in a few minutes."

Dean groans. "That's it, then? You a conformer now?"

Sam rolls his eyes and picks up the remote. "Enjoy your walk."

 

The wind is sharp and bitter. Perhaps this trench-coat does not provide sufficient insulation? Castiel sighs. He's walking along the highway, past brown fields of grass. The sky is the same shade of gray as bathwater. It's late afternoon, and Castiel must return home soon before Naomi gets worried. He passes the Newdale motel's entrance, and stops. Dean Winchester is in the parking lot, hands jammed into his leather jacket pockets.

Either Dean is staying here until he moves into a home, or his dad's not planning to keep them here past the hunt. Either way, Dean is here now, braced against the cold. Without thinking about it, Castiel enters the motel's parking lot and crosses to Dean.

Dean's even more beautiful in the cold, his cheeks and the tips of his ears a bright pink.

"What are you doing here?" he demands.

 _I didn't track you,_ Castiel wants to say. _I'm not a monster. I promise._

"I was taking a walk," he says instead. "I saw you here."

Dean sighs and pulls a cigarette and a Zippo lighter from his pocket. There is a photograph of a naked woman on the side, and the sight discomfits Castiel. Logically, he knows she's just a picture and can't feel anything, but it's too cold to be naked. He hopes the fire from the lighter keeps her worm.

"Hey? James? You gonna ogle Patty all day?"

Castiel tears his eyes away from the lighter, and his cheeks flame. "I was not ogling Patty," he mutters. "I was . . ." _worrying for her safety._ "I hope she's not cold."

Dean looks from Castiel to his lighter, to Castiel again. "Um, James? Patty's not real."

"I know. Um. I should go." Castiel thinks he feels tears prickling in his eyes, and he turns his back on Dean before Dean can notice. This is ridiculous, Castiel crying because a hunter thinks he's weird. It's not just Dean thinking he's weird, though. It's that Dean is hunting Castiel, even if he doesn't know it yet. Castiel isn't the only monster in town, but he's definitely one of them. Dean'll figure that out soon. And when Dean becomes a threat, Naomi will take notice, and she will kill him.

 _I'm the worst kind of person_ , thinks Castiel. _I kill people I don't like and cry over people I do like._ He's so disgusted with himself that he wants to scream. It's not entirely true, anyway. Killing anyone makes him upset, but he's learned to shove it down deep inside.

He feels a warm weight on his shoulder, twisting him around. It's Dean's hand, and Dean is looking down on him with a nervous twist to his mouth.

"You okay? Don't freak out on me. What's going on?"

The sun is low behind Dean, and it makes the pointed tips of his ears glow red. The freckles over his perfectly straight nose, his curved pink lips, his high cheekbones form such an intriguing image. Castiel isn't sure whether he wants to eat Dean or to kiss him.

He definitely shouldn't eat Dean, but kissing him . . .

Castiel pulls himself away from Dean's hand. If he tried to kiss Dean, Dean would probably punch him. Beat him up. There's no way Dean Winchester would kiss back. Castiel's face is beyond burning. His hands are trembling, and when he steps backward, he stumbles.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"

Dean grabs Castiel's right elbow. "Where're you going? Something wrong?"

"N-no," stammers Castiel. "I just have to go."

"'Cause I wanted to apologize." Dean seems awkward suddenly, and he drops Castiel's elbow and rubs the back of his neck. "I was rude to you today."

"It's fine," whispers Castiel. He doesn't trust his voice. This boy is going to die. He's going to die, and Castiel can't do anything to stop it. No, that's not true. He can do something. he can convince Naomi that it's too dangerous to stay here, that whatever reason she has for staying and facing the predator who killed Mrs. Peloni is going to get them killed . . .

And then Naomi will wonder what Castiel knows that she doesn't know, and he'll have to tell her about the hunters.

No.

Dean's still looking at Castiel, his face filled with that worried, anxious, nervous expression, and Castiel wants to absorb it all. He can see Dean's soul fluttering inside Dean, filling him with divine light.

Castiel has a soul, too, but it isn't so bright. It's tainted. Castiel isn't even human.

Humans have the best souls.

 

Dean gets why his dad thought that James was hiding something. He's not altogether weird. It's not so bad, though. That stuff about Patty being cold was weird, but it was weird in a nice way, like James has a conscience. Dean's been hunting since he was around four years old, and he's never met a monster with a conscience.

James definitely isn't a monster, but he could still have a little Hyde inside him. (What? Dean does the required readings. Sometimes. Okay, fine, maybe he had Sam explain it to him. Doesn't mean he can't make a literary reference every now and then.)

Right now James is staring up at Dean with that deer-in-the-headlights look. James is kind of cute, to be honest. If Dean told him that, though, he'd probably freak out. Dean's not shy about his sexuality when he knows he's in the right crowd, but he's not so sure that James is the right crowd. _Damn_ is James cute, though. He has a round sort of face, and a funny crinkle to his eyes.

Whatever James is hiding, it's probably something to do with how quiet he is. How afraid he seems. And he's shivering now, great big racking shivers that make even his hair flop.

Dean checks his watch. Still a while before his dad said he'd be back. John's been known to exaggerate the hour of his return, though. He's probably going to go to a bar, get buzzed before he sleeps. It's the only way John can drift off.

"You want to come in?" asks Dean, before he can think about it.

James cocks his head almost all the way over, and his eyes do the squinchy think again. "You want me to come inside?"

"It's freezing out here," says Dean. "It's not freezing in there."

"That makes sense," murmurs James. After a moment, he shrugs. "Okay, fine."

Dean nods and grinds his cigarette underneath his heel before leading the way into the motel room. Sammy's sitting at the table with his homework spread out all around him. "Hey!" he says, when Dean comes in. "I didn't know you could make friends."

Dean knocks Sam's head and swaggers over to the fridge to get a beer. "You want one?"

Once again, James declines. He's standing by the door, awkward as awkward gets.

"We don't bite," promises Dean. James still doesn't look so hot on the idea of coming in, the way he's pressed up against the door-frame.

"He's letting in all the cold air," Sammy complains, and only then does James come inside and shut the door behind him. His eyes dart all over the room, like he thinks Dean's gonna spring a trap on him.

Not that Dean's ruled that out, yet. James is definitely human, as far as Dean's concerned, but there is something weird about him. Maybe he summoned whatever asshole is currently whisking away parents. Or he could be involved with the Englisht teacher's death. Or both. The two modus operandi (operanduses? operandum?) are so different, though. Still, a coincidence like this one would just be annoying. Two monsters let loose in a town like this at once? Hell of a mess to clean up.

"What's your name?" James asks Sam. Sam has his mouth full, and only shrugs.

"Hey," snaps Dean, shoving Sam's shoulder. "You wanna show some manners?"

"Sam," mutters Sam.

James still looks uncomfortable. "I'm James," he says.

"You want some mac'n'cheese?" asks Dean, plopping some into a bowl without waiting for James to answer. When James takes the bowl, he frowns.

"What is this white substance?"

"Marshmallow fluff!" says Sam. James wrinkles his nose and puts the bowl back on the table. It sends an unpleasant shot through Dean's stomach. He can almost feel the pity rolling off James--poor kids, they have to eat frigging marshmallow fluff with their mac'n'cheese.

"It's a lifestyle choice," says Dean, as though defending himself.

James nods. "Oh."

There's a low, uncomfortable pause. Sam's chewing fills the motel room.

"So," says Dean. "Now that we have a second chance, why don't you ask me a few questions? Just to level the playing field." Sometimes the questions people ask are the questions they don't want to be asked themselves.

James shrugs. "Okay, I guess I can."

Dean nods at one of the motel room chairs, and James takes a seat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please drop me a comment how you think the story is going! I love talking to everybody! <3


	6. Chapter 6

It turns out that Dean is either a very adept liar or not a hunter at all. He lies fluently about his dad’s job as a handyman, how they just moved from Lawrence, Kansas when their dad lost his job, how they’re going to get a house soon. The child, Sam, wanders back and forth from the television set to the table, his eyes curious. Castiel finds his eyes drawn to the bright, flashing colors on the TV. Naomi has never allowed him to watch things. She says it’s drivel for humans, and below an angel of the Lord. When Castiel pointed out that they weren’t exactly working for the Lord anymore, Naomi had clipped his wings. He hadn’t been able to fly for almost a year.

Dean notices Castiel’s attention slipping, and he snaps his fingers in front of Castiel’s eyes. “James? Hello?”

“I’m sorry,” says Castiel, blinking a few times to clear his vision of the dizzying lights. “I was distracted by your television.”

“What?” Dean glances over his shoulder. “It’s just a stupid kids’ show, James.”

“No, it’s not!” snaps Sam. “They’re all in middle school!” Someone on the screen makes a sarcastic retort, and an invisible audience laughs heartily. Castiel is a little confused about the purpose of the audience, as they never clap, which he is pretty sure is the norm.

“Whatever,” says Dean, turning his attention back to Castiel. “So, are we even?”

Castiel opens his mouth and then closes it. He needs to get definitive proof that Dean is a hunter. Maybe Castiel has been wrong this entire time, maybe Dean really isn’t a threat. And Castiel really, really, really doesn’t want Dean to be a threat.

“Did your dad find work, yet?” asks Castiel. Dean looks flustered, dropping his eyes to the floor and fidgeting with his pants leg. Castiel thinks Dean’s about to mess up, say something to blow his cover, but instead he lets out a long breath and says, “He hasn’t actually found a job yet. But he will, soon.”

So either Dean is actually embarrassed that his father is unemployed, or he’s faking embarrassment. He might even be—he might even be stalling! He might know what Castiel is—in fact, he definitely does. He must. Castiel is such an idiot. Dean is stalling, waiting for his dad to get home so “Agent Bonham” can execute Castiel for his crimes.

“I’m sorry,” says Castiel, jerking upward. His chair skitters backward a few feet, and he twists around to catch it. “I’m sorry, I just remembered that I have an urgent appointment at the proctologist’s. Um, not the proctologist's. The oncologist. An ologist. I have to go to an ologist.” He backs up to the threshold, and Dean lurches forward for Castiel.

“I’m sorry!” Cas says again, and shoves the door open. Cold air blasts in, and Sam shouts something.

Dean reaches out again, but lets his hand drop. He looks baffled, his eyebrows knit in confusion. The humming fluourescent in the ceiling illuminates his eyelashes and his freckles, pale from the lack of sun. He doesn’t look angry, which is probably a good thing—maybe Castiel is just being an idiot, and Dean doesn’t know anything. But Castiel isn’t taking any chances, so he turns and sprints out of the parking lot.

 

“What was _that_?” demands Sam, as soon as the door’s shut behind James. “What the hell?”

“Language, Sammy,” murmurs Dean, but his heart isn’t in it. That was the weirdest freaking thing. Now he’s doubly sure that James had something to do with poor old Mrs. Penola.

“No, really,” insists Sam. “What _was_ that?”

“That was one of the kids who found Penola,” says Dean, slumping onto the couch next to Sam. “He knows something, but every time I get close, he gets scared off. Or I get too mean,” he adds as an afterthought.

“I could talk to him,” suggests Sam. “He won’t even see me coming.”

“We’re not using your age as our weapon, Sam,” says Dean. “You’re too young to investigate alone.”

“I wouldn’t be alone,” says Sam. “You’d be nearby. I bet I can get him to spill everything.”

“Nope,” says Dean, standing up and stretching out his back. “Not until you’re a little bit older, buddy.”

“But we won’t have any advantage, then!” fumes Sam. “I’ll be big’n’tall and people will be afraid of me.”

“Trust me,” says Dean, “you’re not getting any taller. You’re gonna be a little shrimp for the rest of your life.”

“Hey!” Sam whacks Dean with a musty couch pillow. “You’re a dirty liar.”

“I know what you are, but what am I?” asks Dean, tackling Sam back onto the couch and tickling him mercilessly. Sure, there’s a case going on, but when isn’t there? Sam’s just a kid. He needs to chill a little—or Dean and John are going to end up with one very tiny body to burn.

 

Castiel steps into metaspace and folds the area between where his physical body was standing on the highway and his bedroom. There’s a sharp change in scenery when he descends into his bedroom, the long gray of the highway transforming into his familiar bed and hardwoord floor. He shakes out his wings and slides them back into metaspace before falling into his bed. A terrible dejectedness settles over him like a shroud. He’s not only playing a dangerous game, but a really stupid one, one that he probably made up himself. Dean probably doesn’t know anything. Maybe he isn’t even Agent Bonham’s son. Maybe Castiel has constructed a . . . a _fantasy_ in his head, and nothing is really real. Maybe—maybe—

Castiel’s bedroom door bangs open. Naomi stands in the doorway, a hand on her hip.

“Castiel?” she asks, an eyebrow raised. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I’m sorry,” he says tonelessly, sitting up and inclining his head. “I was hunting.”

“Hunting?” asks Naomi, her eyes narrowed. “Be careful, Castiel. Who did you take?”

“No one who will be missed,” says Castiel. “Old-person’s home.”

“All right, then.” Naomi glances around his room. “Start packing.” She turns to go, but Castiel’s startled shout stops her.

“Are we leaving?”

Naomi turns back around. “No. Not yet. But we have to be prepared Castiel. We’re being hunted.”

At first he thinks she means Dean and Dean’s family, and his heart jumps into his mouth. His teeth tingle. But then she says, “There are other angels after us. We can’t run forever, but if I think we shouldn’t make our final stand here, we leave.”

“Other angels after us?” asks Castiel. “Did they kill Mrs. Penola?”

“No,” says Naomi. “Mrs. Penola died of natural causes.” At first Castiel thinks she’s being serious, but then she sighs and shakes her head. “Castiel, don’t be an idiot. Of course they killed Mrs. Penola. Now wash up. You know that filthy neighborhood mutt, the one that tried to bite me? Well.” She smiles, a deadly, dark smile. “I caught it. Dinner time.”

 

The sky is dark and cloudy the next morning, and a growing pool of trepidation spreads through Castiel’s stomach as he walks with Charlie to school. It’s Saturday, but she does costumes for the school show and is getting him to come in and help her. It’s chilly, and even with his angelic grace, Castiel shivers.

“You okay there?” asks Charlie.

Castiel nods. “I’m fine.”

Charlie stops walking and pulls Castiel beside her. They’re walking past the woods now, and the sight of the trees does something to Castiel’s stomach.

“James,” she says solemnly. “I can always tell when there’s something up with you. Which there is. Spill.”

“It’s just . . .” Castiel doesn’t know how to finish that thought, and his gaze drifts over her shoulder. The houses here are large and spread out, the kind of picturesque neighborhood made for a stationary life. Not Castiel’s life. Charlie lives in one of these houses. Charlie has the kind of life he can never have. “Nothing,” he says, and tries to start walking, but Charlie pulls him back again.

“James. Is it Mrs. Penola?”

“No,” he says, and then curses inwardly because that would have been a perfect excuse.

“Because it was messed up,” Charlie continues. “It’s ok if it was upsetting. I’m upset.”

“You don’t understand,” mutters Castiel, which might have been the worst thing to say because Charlie’s expression turns stormy.

“I don’t understand? I was _with_ you! I saw her too! You think I’m fine?”

Castiel tries to swallow over the lump that has suddenly lodged itself in his throat. “No, I just . . .”

“Because I’m not, not that you’ve asked.” Charlie blinks rapidly, and her mouth trembled. She’s so close that Castiel can smell her apple-scented shampoo and her vanilla body mist, make out the glint of individual strands in her bright red hair. “Are you going to say anything?” asks Charlie. A few wayward tears spill out of her eyes and form meandering trails down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” chokes Castiel. Her crying is suddenly too much for him to look at, and he stumbles backward. Charlie catches his hand once again.

“I’m s-s-sorry, too!” She can barely form the words. “It was _awful_ , James. It was so, so awful. Someone _killed_ her. Someone _murdered_ her!”

Without thinking, Castiel pulls Charlie close to his chest. Her nose pokes into him, and her tears make his shirt wet, but he doesn’t care. He just stands there with his arms around her. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Charlie.”

Charlie pulls her head back and looks at his face. Her eyes and nose are almost as red as her hair. “Aren’t you upset, James? Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he admits. “Yes.” His eyes are dry, but his throat is so tight he can barely breath. “I’m sorry, too. You’re right. It was awful.”

Charlie gives him one last squeeze and lets go. She starts walking, and Castiel hurries to catch up to her.

“James?” she says. “Can I ask you a question.”

“Of course.”

“Do you—” She stops, takes breath. “Do you think Mrs. Penola’s lost sentience? Do you think she’s really gone? Or do you think she’s somewhere else? Somewhere better or just . . . just somewhere else?”

“Yes,” says Castiel firmly. “I’m sure, Charlie. I’m sure she’s somewhere else.” And they finish their walk to school in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having so much fun writing my first fanfiction! I don't know how long it's going to be--it's about a fourth done right now, but I'm not sure. We'll see! If you're enjoying my story, please leave kudos or a comment! If you have constructive criticism, feel free to leave a comment also. I appreciate all feedback! I hope everybody has a great week <3


	7. Author's note

Oh my goodness! I completely blanked this weekend and didn't update! Unfortunately, that was because this is a crazy week for me. I'll definitely have a chapter up next week. Sorry to all two of my readers! I love you guys! <3 <3 <3 


	8. Chapter 8

When Castiel and Charlie get to the school, she leads him around back to the locked theater door.

"Okay, James," says Charlie. "Let's see what you're made of." She gestures toward the door. Castiel looks uncertainly from her to the door. What does she expect him to do? Use superhuman strength to break it down? He isn't even sure he could, and, anyway, she shouldn't know about any sort of superhuman powers he has.

When she sees the look on his face, she laughs. "Geeze, kid. I'm joking." She produces a small key ring from the back pocket of her jeans. "Watch and learn," she says with a flourish, before unlocking the back doors.

They walk into a landing of a stairwell Castiel has never been in before. "Up there's backstage," says Charlie, gesturing. "The prop and costumes room is downstairs."

"Are you the only one doing costumes?" asks Castiel.

"Uh-uh," says Charlie, slapping on a light and heading down the stairs. "Kevin'll be by later. I just like to get a head start. You know Kevin, right?" She pushes open a pair of double doors, and Castiel finds himself in a long hallway. At one end, there's a wall mostly made of glass, looking out onto a grassy green area. Charlie uses a key to open a door at the end closest to them.

"Oh, blergh," she says after opening the doors. "It's a mess down here." There are props everywhere--random cups, ornamental insects, necklaces, notebooks, wands, and other assorted detritus litter the antechamber. There's another door behind the mess, which Charlie opens with another key. This room is clearly the costume room. It's hard to find a place to stand amid the racks stuffed with glittery, feathery, even scaly, clothing.

"Oooh!" says Charlie, pulling out a wedding dress. "I want to put blood all over this and leave in the cafeteria and start a ghost story! Too much?"

"Um. Yes." Castiel carefully lifts his foot over a naked doll. "Should this be in the prop room, Charlie?"

"What? Oh." Charlie leans down and picks it up. "Sorgana!" she coos. "James, you're looking at a veritable museum piece. You see his arm?" She holds up the doll so Castiel can see that its right arm has been replaced, oddly enough, with a fork. "We call him Sorgana because Keven wants Leia and Han to do the do on camera. It was funny at the time."

"Leia and Han?" asks Castiel. Charlie's mouth drops open.

"Castiel, please. Look, I'm way more of a Star Trek person, but you have to at least _know_ these things!"

"I've heard of _Star Wars_ ," says Castiel. "I wasn't aware of the names of the main characters."

"Ooo-kay." Charlie cradles Sorgana in her arm as she goes back to the rack. "I love the costume stuff," she confesses. "Dressing up as someone I want to be, getting lost in fantasy . . ."

"Why don't you peform?" asks Castiel.

Charlie puts Sorgana down on a little ledge, already cluttered with bits of costume, so she can use both hands on the rack. "You mean be in the plays? I don't know. I guess I like improvising, you know? I like keeping who I am. I don't want to be someone else. I just want to be me as a butt-kicking warrior queen or something." She pulls down a bright red dress and squints at it. "Do you think this would be good for Lady Macbeth? I think Gilda would look super hot in it. I don't know if Missouri would think it's appropriate, though. So. Whatevs." She puts it back up on the rack and keeps searching.

"Would you like some assistance?" says Castiel, who's feeling more than a little useless just hanging around here.

"Actually, there's this green doublet that I'm thinking would be really good on Ed? Could you rustle that up for me? It has these red eyelets. Which would subtly link him to Lady Macbeth, because I really do want her in red." Charlie has a profficiency about her in the costume room. She gets distracted here and there, but she's a woman on a mission.

After a while, the door opens again and Kevin comes in. He doesn't even notice Castiel at first, just goes right over to Charlie. "Timothy," he says.

Charlie looks over at him. "What is it, Kev?"

"Timothy," he repeats. "He's really missing Charlie. And I feel like it's my fault somehow."

Charlie hurries over to Kevin and grabs his shoulders. "Kev. Seriously, don't worry about it. He probably crashed a big-kid party and is sleeping it off in his cousin's bathtub or something."

"But I wanted him to die!" Kevin's voice cracks. "I actually prayed for it! After he beat me up, I went home and prayed for it!"

Castiel's stomach does a slow roll. He thinks he might be sick. He's consumed many people before, but he's never seen anyone blame a disappearance on themselves. It's true that Castiel is usually more careful--he was so hungry, he wasn't thinking straight, he should have gone to the old-age home or something. And now an innocent boy is blaming himself.

Kevin notices Castiel around that time. "Um . . . John?" he asks.

"James," corrects Charlie.

"I didn't actually kill Timothy," says Kevin. "In case you think I did? Because I didn't, I promise. Maybe I should go--"

"No! Come here." Charlie yanks him over to the nearest rack. "You, mister, need to help me look for costume pieces."

"Oh. Right. Wow, I forgot about that, sorry, sorry." Kevin starts to look through a rack. By his aimless motions, Castiel can tell that Kevin isn't actually searching for anything in particular.

"James, do you remember where the doublets were?" says Charlie. When Castiel nods, she says, "Great. Show them to Kevin. Kev, could you pick out a few that we could try out? I think I want Gilda in a doublet in a few scenes, too. And hers have to be red. And I want Macbeth's to get redder and redder, and hers to get less and less red throughout the show, but they have to both have some red in them, okay? Great. And Kevin?" She makes Kevin look her in the eyes. "It's just silly-talk if you think that you killed Timothy. Maybe don't go to church as much. Away, good sir!" And she pushes him in Castiel's direction.

Castiel can't focus for the rest of their time in the costume room. He numbly moves where Charlie tells him to, searches perfunctorily for costume pieces, but the entire time, panic is rising higher and higher in his throat. When Charlie calls a lunch break, Castiel stumbles out into the hallway, his head spinning.

"Yo, you okay?" Charlie says, shutting the costume door behind them. Even Kevin looks worried.

"James?" he says. "You look kind of pale. Are you going to faint? If you think you're going to faint you should lie down. You can't faint if you're lying down."

Suddenly, the hallway feels much too small. Castiel isn't sure if he wants to run or fly or rip off his skin. He just knows he can't stay _here_ , not when he feels like this. So he takes off running down the hall and bursts through the door on the opposite side, into the grass. The sound of blood rushing through his ears almost drowns out the sound of the door's lock snapping.

Being outside isn't much better than being inside. To a fallen angel, everywhere that's not Heaven might as well be inside, something Castiel has never fully appreciated until now. But it's true--he can't go home unless he goes the long way, and, actually, can he die? It suddenly strikes him that he's sort of been assuming all this time that he'll die, but what if he can't? What if being a fallen angel means immortality on this . . . this . . . this _rock_?

He runs around the back of the building and looks all around him before pulling into metaspace. He can't spend to long here, just tries to think of a place to connect himself. For some reason, Dean's hotel room occurs to him, and Castiel collapses in a heap on a motel bed.

He's up almost immediately, looking around, but he's in luck. The room's empty. Dean and Sam must be out. His heart gradually slows down, and his breathing stops coming out so jerkily. It dawns on him that this is a perfect moment to snoop.

Before he can think to hard about it, he's on the floor in front of a battered suitcase. It has a padlock, but Castiel snaps it. It's only after he has the latches open that he realizes what a stupid thing he's just done. It's too late to worry about it now, though, so he swings open the suitcase.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little short, but since I'm on vacation this week, I'm going to try posting once a day. It'll keep the creative juices flowing and also keep me from expiring of boredom. I mean, I love vacation, but I'm also the kind of person who needs a little structure. I hope everyone had a great week! I love to talk to people, so feel free to comment or hit up my tumblr! <3


	9. Chapter 9

At least it's cool in school. The sun had come up on the way there, and by the time Sam and Dean pick a lock in the back of the school and make their way in, they're sweltering.

“Where are we?” asks Sam, blinking rapidly. Dean rubs the sunspots out of his eyes and looks around. They're in the downstairs hallway, by the math rooms.

“That’s my math class,” he says, pointing at a door.

“Cool,” says Sam. “Where was the attack?”

“Upstairs.” Dean leads Sam up the short staircase and into his locker bay. “I left some stuff here,” he says over his shoulder. “Here.” He spins open his locker and rifled through his school papers.

“Salt.” He hands the canister to Sam. “You got your silver blade?”

“Not gonna need it,” says Sam. “It’s prob’ly a ghost.”

“Don’t be too sure,” says Dean. “We don't know squat.”

“What we really need are shot-guns,” grouches Sam.

“Not during the day,” says Dean.

“Is this the room?” Sam points to the number by one of the classroom doors.

Dean doesn’t answer, just carefully opens the door. He’d been expecting it to be empty, and it takes him a moment to square the fact that it isn’t empty with what he’d been expecting. There's a girl at the other end of the room, crouching by the supply closet. She has a tumble of red hair, and at first Dean thinks it's Charlie. Charlie’s hair is wavy and cut short, though, and this girl has straight hair that hung neatly off her shoulders. She hadn’t gotten up when the door opened, but had twisted around to look at it. She gazes at the boys coolly, her face unreadable.

“Ghost?” mouthed Sam.

“No,” says the girl. Dean’s mouth opened. What the hell? There was no way she’d been close enough to see Sam’s mouth.

There's a sudden rustle, and the girl is standing right in front of them. Dean jolts backward, but Sam actually stumbles out of the room.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Did I startle you?”

Dean grabs her shoulders and stares at her. Now that she's closer, Dean can see that she really looks nothing like Charlie. She has a narrow, bony face and a thin mouth. She looks almost starved. Her shoulders are sharp in his hands.

“You must let me go,” she says.

“Like hell I will,” grinds out Dean. “You’re coming with me.”

“I could destroy you in a millisecond,” she counters. “Let me go.”

“Dean!” says Sam. “Let go!”

Dean growls and tightens his grip on her shoulders. “What _are_ you?”

She frowns and cocked her head. For a second, she reminds Dean of someone, but he can't remember who.

“Isn’t the usual phrase _who_ are you?”

“Not in this case. You’re clearly not human. So spill.”

“My name is Anael,” she continues. “It means Grace of God. Would you like to be friends with the Grace of God, Dean Winchester?”

Dean swallows hard. “How do you know my name?”

She reaches up a hand and places it over one of Dean’s. “You’re touching me,” she says. “I can feel everything.”

Dean finally relinquishes her. “Now can you read me?” he demands.

She ignores him, turning instead to Sam. “Would you like to be my friend, Sam? I would be a very good friend. I could draw your likeness for you.”

“Okay, hold-up. Stop. Everybody stop. No one is drawing anyone’s likeness, capisce? How old are you, anyway? Aren’t you too old for this?”

Sam’s face shows dumb he thinks this question is, but Dean didn’t really care. Anything to keep this _thing_ talking.

Anael shrugged. “A long time ago, I lived in heaven. I was twelve billion years old. Then I was born in this body. Now I am fourteen years old.”

“Lived in heaven?” squeaks Sam. “Really?”

“Yeah, and you were a twinkle in Dad’s eye,” grumbles Dean, shoving Sam. He doesn’t need this monster indoctrinating Sam into heaven-worship or whatever.

The girl frowns. “I did not know that humans began as twinkles in their fathers’ eyes. That is very interesting.”

“What’s up with the no contractions?” says Dean. “It’s friggin’ annoying.”

“Oh.” She looks surprised. “Metatron does not like contractions. He says they dilute the English language. He says the vernacular is appropriate only in certain books and never for us. Shall I use the vernacular?”

“Who the hell is Metatron?” says. “Some kind of transformer?”

“Dean,” says Sam, slowly, “Dean, Metatron is an _angel_.”

Still keeping his eyes on Anael, Dean tilts his head toward Sam. “What’s that?”

“Metatron!” Sam’s voice has reached its uppermost limits, and Dean is almost worried that any nearby glass will shatter. “Metatron is an angel! He’s the scribe of God! And I’ve never heard of Anael before, but that sounds like an angel to me. These are angel names, Dean!”

Dean clenches his jaw. His heart's going a hundred-twenty miles per hour. His hands twitches to unload a shotgun, but he doesn’t have one. “What’re you saying? You saying that this chick in front of us is an angel?”

“Are you an angel?” asks Sam.

Anael crosses her arms around her. “I used to be in heaven. Now I’m not anymore.”

“Are you fallen?” asks Sam. He’s been getting closer and closer to her, so Dean yanks the back of Sam’s shirt and pulls him back.

“No,” she snaps, ruffled for the first time. “Of course I’m not fallen. I’m from heaven, and when I die, I’ll go back and be a full angel again. This is like prison time.”

“So you can use contractions,” says Sam.

Anael smiles. “I like it. It’s sort of human.” 

Dean, feeling very, very lost, tries to get the situation back on track. “So you’re the one who killed Mrs. Penola?”

“The woman who was killed in this room?” Anael flicks her hazel eyes from Dean to Sam. “I didn’t kill her. But I know who did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, AO3 does constantly quote at us that brevity is the soul of wit, so I guess this chapter is witty, then. I'm trying to write longer chapters, I'm just so tired all the time. I finally started studying for the SAT's tonight! Yay. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, even if it was so short. Hopefully the next one will be longer. I hope you all have a great week, and if you're in the US, enjoy President's Day off! <3


	10. Chapter 10

This is certainly a lot of weapons.

Castiel sits back on his heels and looks up from the case. His gaze rests on the closed curtains of the motel window. His head is spinning. Salt, for ghosts, probably. An assortment of ceremonial knives. A vial of a dark red liquid, probably blood. Castiel shuts the case and sits on one of the neatly-made hotel beds.

So. They’re definitely hunters then. Dean and his brother, and their father whom they pretend isn’t really their father. Castiel is in trouble. He is in the deepest of trouble. Honestly, he should fly away now and hide in the Bermuda triangle. Once the hunters find out about Castiel, he is as dead as his deadest victim. Castiel’s only hope is that Ms. Penola’s killer distracts them.

Castiel drops his head into his hands. His wings slowly beat in the air behind him. His eyes burn, and his hands come away wet. He’s crying. It doesn’t happen often. It’s been trained out of him. Naomi, with her coldness, has trained it out of him. Murder has trained it out of him. _I am too young,_ thinks Castiel furiously. _I am too young for my life._

A thought occurs to him. If Dean were to kill him, he would deserve it. Of course he would deserve it. The honorable thing would be to go to Dean and beg for death.

 _No._ Castiel stands sharply and pulls his wings back into metaspace. He won’t. He won’t give Dean or anyone else his life. But he is going to deserve it.

“I will never kill again,” says Castiel. The motel room swallows up his words as though he never said them.

“I will never kill again,” repeats Castiel, louder. “I WILL NEVER KILL AGAIN! I WILL NEVER KILL AGAIN!”

“It sounds like you’re never going to kill again.”

“What—” Castiel turns on his heel. There’s a woman standing before him, much taller than he is. She has soft black curls and deep blue eyes, but there’s something wavering about her, something Castiel sees only when he looks at Naomi or in a mirror. It’s the nearly-invisible flames the angels wear wherever they go.

“You’re an angel,” whispers Castiel.

She casts a sharp glance around the room. “It’s not safe here, Castiel. Naomi or Metatron will find us.”

“How do you know my name?” he demands. Worry yawns in his stomach. “Who are you?”

Her eyes meet his. “There isn’t much time. The _ishim_ are converging. I’m here to save you.”

Castiel takes step back, and his foot hits the case. It skitters behind him. In a flash, it’s in the woman’s arms.

“How did you do that?” asks Castiel. “I can’t do that.”

“You aren’t very powerful in your current form.” She closes her eyes and tilts her head as though she is listening to something. “There are weapons in here.”

“It’s not mine.”

“No.” She puts it on the bed behind her. “It’s not yours. It belongs to hunters. The situation is worse than I feared. You’re coming with me.” She grips Castiel’s arm in a strong hand.

“No!” Castiel knees her, but she she shoves him against the wall.

“This is for your own good,” she insists. “I’m here to help you, Castiel. I would never harm you. In heaven, we were fellow garrison leaders. We marched in the front of Heaven’s wars together. Don’t you remember?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you.”

She growls and slams a hand into the wall. “Castiel! I need you to remember! You turned against heaven, and they sent you down. They turned you into an _ish_. A mix of angel and human. Right now, you are in danger on earth. I am on a holy mission to retrieve you, Castiel.”

Castiel’s thoughts feel foggy, like there’s a layer between him and reality. He knows, on some level, that this woman is right. _Ishim_ are angels cast out of heaven, sent to earth to live as half-angel, half-human until they die and return to Heaven. But he’s always thought of it in an abstract way. He’s rearely wondered what his life was like in Heaven, or what it would be like to go back there.

“Hannah,” he pleads. “I want to stay here. This is all I know.”

She stiffens. “You called me Hannah.”

“You told me your name,” says Castiel.

She shakes her head, her eyes intense. “No. I didn’t. You remembered. You’re remembering. It’s time for all angels to be called back to heaven. God has forgiven you.”

Castiel yanks his arm out of her grasp. A memory dances at the edge of his thoughts, but whenever he reaches for it, it dances farther away from him. A glimpse of Hannah, not in this vessel, but as wide and deep as the Pacific ocean, her laughter the pure sound of water crashing against the shore.

“Hannah,” he says, “that’s impossible. I am not allowed back in Heaven until my death. You’re lying to me. God does not want me back. I have further repentance to do. Why would you lie to me, Hannah?”

She drops her hands to her sides. “It is dangerous here, Castiel. Let me take you somewhere where you’ll be safe.”

Castiel raises his arms. “So take me, Hannah.” When she doesn’t move, he drops his hands as well. “You can’t take me anywhere without my permission, can you.”

She shakes her head. “As an _ish_ , you’re protected. I cannot take you anywhere you do not want to go. But Castiel!” She waves an arm to encompass the room, the county, the country, the world. “Castiel, the _ishim_ are gathering. Metatron is here, and Naomi, and Anael. More are coming. They want you dead, Castiel.”

Castiel swallows hard. “Why would they want to harm me, Hannah? We are all _ishim_. As the humans would say, we are all in the same boat.”

Hannah shakes her head. “Castiel, why do you think so many angels were cast out so closely together?”

“I don’t know,” says Castiel. “But it wasn’t my fault.” When Hannah doesn’t say anything, his breath quickens. “It wasn’t my fault, was it? _Was it_?” When Hannah doesn’t respond, he reaches up and grips her shoulder. “It couldn’t have been my fault. I was cast out after Naomi. I am a child. She is grown up.”

“Only because your trial took longer.” Hannah takes his chin in her hand. “You were tried for thirty years, Castiel. Your crime was the most grave. There was talk of locking you in Lucifer’s cage.”

“So why didn’t they?” asks Castiel.

“Because they let the others fall with their memories.” Hannah steps even closer to him, so they are pressed together. “Metatron, Anael, Balthazar, Zachariah, and more. All the angels in your garrison. They remember, Castiel. They remember how the leader of their garrison caused them all to fall from Heaven.”

“I was their leader?” rasps Castiel. “What did I do to them?”

“You failed them. Come with me Castiel, and I will keep you safe.”

For a moment, Castiel considers her offer. It is very tempting. If he were to go with her, he would be safe.

“What about Naomi?” he asks. “She has kept me safe for so long. Why would she do that?”

“She is unlike the others,” admits Hannah. “She did not fall because of you. You were in something of cohoots, although your crime was worse.”

“ _What did I do_?” demands Castiel, but Hannah cocks her head up.

“Now or never, Castiel. Decide!”

Safety with Hannah means running away from his crimes. Staying with his crimes means death.

“Go.” Castiel shoves her. “Go!”

“Castiel—”

“If it’s my fault, then it’s my fault. I must face my punishment. Go, Hannah.”

Her image shivers, and she melts away, leaving Castiel in an empty motel room.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized I made last chapter all past-tense, so I went back and changed it just now O.o
> 
> I hope everyone is enjoying the story! If you are, leave a kudos or a comment! If you're not enjoying the story, leave a comment to tell me why. Basically, comments are amazing because I love talking to people! Visit my tumblr also: fictionista654.tumblr.com. I love meeting new people, so feel free to message me there!
> 
> <3 <3 <3


	11. Chapter 11

_“The woman who was killed in this room?” Anael flicks her hazel eyes from Dean to Sam. “I didn’t kill her. But I know who did.”_

Dean makes a quick, furtive movement to grab her again, but she nimbly steps out of his way.

“Dean!” says Sam. “Don’t antagonize her!”

“Don’t antaganize me,” repeats Anael. “I don’t like being antagonized. I’m here to help. If you don’t want my help, I’ll just go away.”

“We want your help,” says Dean. His mouth feels numb; he’s asking an angel for help. Anael is an _angel_.

“Okay,” says Anael. “That’s better. I’d prefer a _please_ , but whatever. Oh. Huh. That rhymed!” She grinned. Dean felt faint. What kind of angel got so pleased at a rhyme?

“Can you tell us who killed her?” asks Sam. “Or are you bound by the divine Word of God or something?”

“The Word of God has no power over me,” sniffs Anael. “I may look young, but Metatron isn’t much older than I am.”

Oh. When Sam says the Word of God, he means an actual angel. He means Metatron. As in, Anael’s friend. As in . . . what?

“Look,” says Dean, his heart hammering. “You’re an angel, fine. You live with the Word of God, fine. That’s cool. That’s cool. But we need your help, Anael.”

Anael gives a resolute nod. “You have it. But you must know that we are outnumbered. If I take you underneath my wings, there will be many trying to hurt us. Metatron, Naomi, even Castiel. All the _ishim_ are afraid of Hunters, no matter what side of the fight they are on.”

“Who else?” asks Sam, whose brain is apparently functioning better than Deans. “You, Metatron, Naomi? Who’s Naomi?”

“She used to be the angel of pleasentness. Now she is the angel of bitternes. She is very unhappy. She will kill anyone.”

“And Castiel?” says Sam. Anael looks about to answer, but just then, a door slams. Charlie and Kevin skid around the corner.

“Dean?” asks Charlie.

“Charlie?” asks Dean.

“Have you seen James?” Kevin asks. “We can’t find him anywhere.”

“He looked like he was going to barf and then he ran outside and now he’s missing!”

“He’s a big kid,” says Dean. “He can look after himself.” But his suspicions are starting to rise again. He’s sure James is connected in some way, and he disappears right when an angel appears? He turns to Anael.

“Do you know anything about this?”

Anael’s gone pale, which is pretty odd to see happening to angel. “James?” she repeats. “James Novak?”

“Um, yeah,” says Kevin. “Do you know him?”

“Who are you?” asks Charlie, eyeing Anael. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“I know where he is,” says Anael. “Are these your friends, Dean?”

Dean shakes his head. “No. They’re civs.”

“They’re friends with James, right?” asks Sam. “So shouldn’t they know, Dean? They could help us. You think James is connected, right?”

Dean pulls Sam to the side. “They’re normals, Sam. They don’t know what’s out there, yet. You wanna ruin their innocence, be my guest. But I’m not gonna do it.”

“But more people could die,” argues Sam. “And you think James has something to do with it. And you don’t want more people to die, right?”

Dean searches Sam’s face. His kid brother has a determined set it his mouth, his eyes. The kind of determination you don’t usually see in a kid that young. But Dean shakes his head. “No way.”

“Excuse me?” Anael taps Dean on the shoulder. “It’s not really your decision, is it.”

“What’s not?” demands Charlie. “Will somebody tell us what’s going on?”

“Please,” adds Kevin. “I don’t like being in the dark. It makes me anxious. I’m feeling very anxious right now.”

Anael spreads her wings. One second, there’s nothing behind her but empty space, and then two brilliant white wings explode into the area behind her. They tower over her tiny form, casting a shadow over the party. There’s a moment of silence. Then:

“Suffering. Sappho. Suffering freaking sappho. Suffering sappho!” says Charlie. “You’re an angel! Oh, my goodness, you’re an angel, you’re an angel, and you have a quest, you’re on a quest, oh, my goodness, Kevin, look she’s an _angel_!”

“My name is Anael. I fell from Heaven sixteen years ago. My purpose is to destroy Castiel, but I have a different idea.”

 

Castiel quietly shuts the door to his bedroom and sits on his bed. The house is silent. Naomi is out, doing who-knows-what. Probably eating people, honestly. And everything Castiel thought he knew is a lie.

 _Start with the truth_ , he thinks. He gets a piece of paper from his desk drawer and sits at his desk to write.

_Things I know._

  1. _I ~~am~~ was an angel of the Lord._
  2. _I am no longer an angel of the Lord._
  3. _I fell from Heaven._
  4. _I am in a human body, therefore_
  5. _I can be killed_
  6. _If I am killed, I will go back to Heaven and resume my duties, therefore_
  7. _Anael, Metatron, and whomever else is approaching will not kill me_
  8. _They will hurt me in some way, so I can never return to Heaven_
  9. _Naomi is on my side, but I do not know why_
  10. _We did something bad together_
  11. _I am evil_
  12. _I am evil_
  13. _I am evil_



Castiel stops writing. The world is vague and foggy all around him, his image narrowing down to one point. He drops his pencil and puts his head down on his desk. He can feel his heartbeat everywhere in his body. Every pulse burns him. There’s a suden rustling sound behind him, and he jolts around.

“Oh, my Lord,” he croaks. There’s another _ish_ standing on his worn floor. She has the brightest flames Castiel has ever seen, and if he squints, he can even make out the afterimage of a halo around her head. She’s not alone, though. Behind her are Sam and Dean, both standing straight. Charlie and Kevin are here, too, but they look a little more disoriented.

“Wait,” says Charlie. Her voice comes out in a squeak. “ _This_ is Castiel. I’ve been best friends with an angel?”

Castiel stands. His legs are shaking. “Anael.” That’s her name, he remembers now. He remembers the soft swirls of clay underneath her careful ministrations, a fifteenth-century studio filled with light, a girl made entirely of paint. “Anael, please. Please go.”

Dean looks like he’s seen a ghost. His lips are blue. “James?” he says. “James is an angel?”

“That’s what I said!” Charlie seems to have adapted faster to the idea than Dean, and she bounces forward on her toes. “James is an angel!”

“This is what an angel’s bedroom looks like?” asks Kevin, casting a few glances around. “It’s kind of . . . underwhelming.”

Castiel’s head swims. He’s never had friends in his room before. He didn’t think it would go quite like this. “What do you want, Anael?”

She brushes past him and picks up the piece of paper. Castiel flushes while she reads it. “Stop it, Anael. What do you want?”

“This is wrong.” She puts it back down. “I will not hurt you, Castiel. I’m on your side.”

He narrows his eyes. “Why?”

“Why?” She seems surprised. “Castiel, you were the best leader our garrison has ever had. We would have followed you anywhere. The others may have lost their faith, but I haven’t.”

“You were going to be awarded your own garrison.” The memory sinks slowly into Castiel’s mind. “You were going to . . . you were going to be rewarded, but you were cast out instead. Whatever I did, it lead to you being cast out. Why would you want to help me?”

“Wait. Back up. Back the h-e-double-hockey sticks up,” snaps Dean. “James, you were the leader of an angelic garrison?”

“James was the leader of an angelic garrison!” Charlie claps her hands together.

“Is everybody saying that James was the leader of an angelic garrison?” Kevin jokes weakly.

“That’s what everybody’s saying,” murmurs Sam. He has his eyes fixed on Anael, though, not on Castiel.

“His name isn’t _James_ ,” says Anael. “It’s Castiel. And, yes. He was the leader of our garrison. It was Castiel, me, Metatron, Balthazar, Samandriel, among others. We would have followed Castiel anywhere. I still would. But then . . .” Her eyes rest at a point just behind Castiel’s head. “It all went to h-e-double-hockey sticks. As you say.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys! Hope everybody had a great week! If you didn't, that's fine. This is a new week. Say hi in the comments or find me on tumblr! <3


	12. Not a Chapter

No chapter today. Sorry, guys! Junior year is hard. I was too tired to do much of anything. Hopefully I'll put up a new chapter tomorrow. Hope everyone had a great week!


	13. Chapter 13

_“His name isn’t_ _James_ _,” says Anael. “It’s Castiel. And, yes. He was the leader of our garrison. It was Castiel, me, Metatron, Balthazar, Samandriel, among others. We would have followed Castiel anywhere. I still would. But then . . .” Her eyes rest at a point just behind Castiel’s head. “It all went to h-e-double-hockey sticks. As you say.”_

“Um . . . okay,” says Charlie. “That’s cool. Angelic warfare. I can so get behind that! Ahem. Sorry. Touchy subject? But, like, how? What happened?”

Anael shifts her gaze to Castiel. “I don’t know,” she admits. Castiel closes his eyes.

“You don’t know?” says Dean. He’s feeling almost insignificant at this point, with two angels in the room and everything, and it’s kind of worrisome that one of the two fearsome creatures knows nada.

“You don’t know,” repeats Ja—Castiel, in a low tone. “Why not?”

Anael sits down on the bed and rests her elbows on her knees. “I don’t know. I think there was too much information from my angelic form to rest in a human brain. Some things had to be edited out. Anything that could be used to sympathise with you, Castiel, surely. I don’t think I’ll get my memories back until I reascend.”

“That sucks,” says Sam. Dean elbows him. He doesn’t need Sammy piping up and being useful right now. He doesn’t want Sam suctioned into this whole mess. Sammy rubs his side huffily. “What’d you do that for?” he demands. Luckily, no one in the room has their attention on the two of them. Kevin is numbly scratching his neck, and Charlie is bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Can you do magic?” she blurts. Castiel and Anael both look at her, confused. “You teleported us, Anael! That was very cool. And definitely magical.”

“We can perform miracles,” says Anael, a little uncertainly. “I could before. And we are excellent killers.”

Dean’s heart picks up the pace. Sure, angels might be kind of out of his area of expertise, but he knows how to stab something that wants to kill him. “You planning on using that ability on us?” he asks.

“Maybe,” says Anael, at the same time Castiel says, “No.”

“Why would we kill them?” asks Castiel. Everything about the way he addresses Anael is lined with familiarity, and Dean can tell that they were close once.

“Nothing is ever a hundred percent,” Anael replies succinctly.

“Oh, my God,” groans Kevin.

“Please don’t refer to Our Father that way,” says Anael, standing. Kevin takes a step back, and she laughs. “Don’t worry. I very likely won’t have to hurt any of you.”

“You said your purpose was to the destroy Castiel?” asks Sam.

“Yes.” Anael sighs. “Castiel . . . did something. I don’t know what. Castiel? Do you know?”

Castiel shakes his head. Dean still can’t get over the fact the kid he’s been talking to for the past week has been an _angel_ this whole time. It’s freaking crazytown.

“Then we need to find out what you did,” says Anael. “Metatron knows, but he would never tell me. Naomi knows as well.”

“Why do some people—angels—know and not others?” asks Kevin, who’s must’ve been following this whole time.

“When they fell,” explains Anael. “Those who fell first are the leaders of the destruction of Castiel. Their crimes were less severe, and so they will be the torch-carriers and pitchfork-wielders who burn their old ringleader to the ground.”

A loud noise cracks through the room. Dean automatically shoves Sam behind him before he realizes it was just Castiel, banging his hand down on his desk.

“I need to know what I _did_ ,” he says plaintively. “You said Naomi knows? That’s good. She’s on my side, so to speak. We can talk to her.”

“Naomi’s modus operandi has been to run,” says Anael. “She grabbed you when you were little and ran with you, and she’s been running ever since. She doesn’t want to fight. She wants to flee.”

“She was fearsome, once,” says Castiel. “What happened?”

Anael stands in front of Castiel where he’s sitting at his desk chair. She puts one hand on either side of his chair and brings her face close to his. “I don’t know,” she says. “Something happened to her in Heaven. It’s all part of the greater story. We need to hear it all.”

The two angels stare at each other for a long time, and Dean is uncomfortably reminded of how old they are, how ancient. Their gazes are still and unwavering. Finally, Dean clears his throat. Anael and Castiel both look at him. “This is nice and all,” he says, “but what’s the plan?”

“Naomi,” says Castiel, rising. “Naomi is the plan. She’s out feeding right now, but she should back soon. And then we ask her questions.”

Dean crosses his arms and leans back against Castiel’s dresser. This certainly is a weird frigging day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys! <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V e r y short chapter because I have two tests tomorrow. Both before lunch. Can't wait.

Very far away, in another dimension, the angel Michael leans back in his chair and kicks his feet up on the desk. “Have you seen this?” He sets a sheet of paper onto the smooth surface and waits for the angel across from him to pick it up.

Hannah gives him a cool stare. “And what would that be?”

Michael puts his feet on the floor and sets his elbows on the desk. “Why don’t you take a look?”

She picks it up and glanced at it, her face as calm and as still as the endless depths of Heaven. “It’s the sign-out sheet.”

Michael takes it back from her and pretends to peruse it. “Yes. It is, indeed, the sign-out sheet, Hannah. Do you know why we have a sign-out sheet, Hannah?”

“Because Peter is anal,” she mutters. A frightened look crosses her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over—”

“Don’t.” Michael holds up a hand. He enjoys this lazy, confident feeling he gets whenever he deals with subordinates. It feels good. “We have a sign-out sheet, Hannah, because we really, really don’t like angels running loose.”

“I haven’t left Heaven for millennia,” she says. “I’m sorry, Michael, but I’m really very busy—”

“Once again, don’t.” Michael stands, but Hannah stands too, so they’re looking eye-to-eye. They’re both wearing vessels—it’s considered polite in this echelon—but Michael can see that shining light inside her. It would be fun to snuff it out.

“Michael. Are you accusing me of something?”

“Actually, yes. Do you see your name on the sign-out sheet, Hannah?” He gives it back to her, and she immediately drops it down on the desk.

“I haven’t left Heaven in a long time, Michael. My name has no reason to be on this list.”

Michael grins wolfishly. “ _Au contraire, mon amie._ A very trusted source has seen you below-decks, Hannah. I’m afraid it won’t do any good to lie now.”

Hannah pulls out an angel blade.

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Castiel isn’t quite sure how old he is. He doesn’t think about it often, but when he does, he often just substitutes _an astronomically long time_. Now, though, he doesn’t feel very old. He feels fifteen. And for the last fifteen years, he’s been living pretty much humanly. He might have absorbed a few life forces here and there, but he’d also gone to school and learned how to diagram sentences and do algebra. He’d worn jeans and bought backpacks and read books for English class. And now, finally, his angelic past is catching up to him. It’s a relief, almost, that he won’t have to run anymore, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to face what put him on earth in the first place.

It doesn’t help that there are four humans and one angel currently lounging about his room. Anael is sitting on his bed, solemnly watching him. Dean and Sam and standing by the door, arguing in low voices. Charlie and Kevin are arguing in slightly less low voices.

“I think we should go,” Kevin is saying. “I really, really think we should get out of here.”

“ _You_ can get out of here,” says Charlie. “I’m staying. This is so cool, Kev! This is like everything I’ve ever wanted! I mean, not everything, because Galadriel isn’t here, and all my dreams have Galadriel in them, but it’s still pretty close. Okay, maybe it’s a little more Christian than what I was expecting, but a quest is a quest!”

“This isn’t a quest,” interjects Anael, suddenly. The room falls silent. “If you think this will be fun, you can leave.”

Charlie crosses her arms. “Quests don’t have to be fun. Quests can be all kinds of thing. A quest is a search for something. We’re searching for answers. Ergo, this is a quest.”

“We’re on a quest, too,” says Sam. Dean elbows him, but Sam continues. “We fight the things that go bump in the night. I don’t know if angels do that exactly, but they’re making people disappear, aren’t they? People like that kid Tommy, and those girl’s parents. And the English teacher.”

Castiel stares down at his desk. So Sam—and by extension, Dean—don’t realize that Castiel is the one who killed Sandra’s parents and Timmy. Maybe they’ll never figure it out. It doesn’t matter, anyway. And it seems like Castiel’s hour upon the stage is almost up. Either Metatron and the rest will kill him, or something else will happen.

The front door creaks open. Everyone in the room tenses. “Now what?” hisses Charlie.

Anael rolls out her shoulders. “It’s not safe for the humans. Castiel and I will go down and question her ourselves.”

“Like hell you will!” says Dean. “I’m not letting you two out of my sight. We’re all going down. Naomi’s on our side, right?”

“Naomi is a _dangerous_ ,” stresses Anael. “Heaven may have failed to wipe out my loyalty to Castiel, but that doesn’t mean Castiel did nothing wrong. I trust him, and I can’t do anything about that. But Naomi, I feel nothing for. I know nothing about her. Why would she stay by Castiel? What are her reasons? It’s not safe.”

“Tough.” Dean yanks the door open and marches out. Castiel hastily follows him onto the landing. The entire party troops down the stairs behind Dean, who’s jaw is clenched.

Naomi is waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, her arms crossed. “Anael,” she says. “I felt your presence.”

“Naomi.” The two of them nod to each other.

“Castiel,” says Naomi. “You invited so many friends over without asking permisison.”

Castiel hurries down the stairs in front of Dean. “Naomi, we just have a few questions to ask you.”

“All right,” she sighs, “let’s go into the kitchen.”

It’s crowded with all of them in there. Naomi selects a seat at the head of the table and everyone else takes a seat around it, so they’re all crammed together. Castiel finds himself next to Dean, and, with lack of space, Dean’s leg pressed against his own. The warmth does things to Castiel’s stomach.

“All right.” Naomi lays her hands on the table. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did we fall?” asks Anael before Castiel can put a single thought together. “Why are we all here?”

“It’s a long story,” says Naomi, “and somewhat mundane.”

“Tell us,” says Castiel. His voice nearly breaks. “Naomi, please. Tell us.”

Naomi leans forward. “This is an act of treason, Castiel. Do you understand that? If I tell you what I know, I am transgressing against the Lord.”

“We get it,” snaps Dean.

Naomi flicks an icy stare at him. “Very well. I’ll tell it. The story starts four point five billion years ago . . .”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally failed a math test on Friday!!!! It was awesome!!!! hahahahaha. But, seriously, if any of you guys are struggling with grades, it's fine! Grades don't define you, and you're amazing. And really internalize that grades don't define you, okay? Because they do not, do not, do not. As you can tell, I may be a little nervous about my math grade.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!! <3


	16. Chapter 16

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. He also created a multitude of angels to sing their praise to him. But the angels lacked stucture, so he placed them into garrisons, and to each garrison, he assigned a worthy angel. I was in charge of the . . . _inelligence_ department, you might call it. I regulated our connection to earth and looked for traitors in our midst.

“You, Castiel, worked in my department. You were a good little soldier. You always listened to orders. You always obeyed to the best of your ability, which wasn’t always impeccible. I began to care for you, though, as a mother cares for a child. You were sweet. You were trying.

“When God left, we felt it in every echelon of heaven. We were distraught, lost. I knew something must be done, so I reorganized the garrisons. I gave you your own troop, Castiel. Metatron was despicable but a favorite of God, nonetheless, so I gave him to you as a punishment to him. Anael and a few others joined you of their own volition.

For a millennium, everything went well. There was peace in the heavens and peace on earth. We were happy, as happy as we could be without our Father. You two, Castiel and Anael, prospered.

“But something happened to you, my darling Castiel. You were my protégé, and you deceived me, turned from me. You and your garrison committed a crime so despicable, so disgusting, that I—I did my best to save you from the wrath of the heavens. Perhaps I went to far, for I was found guilty, too. Your former garrison and I were cast out of heaven, sent with an angelic mission to cast you into hell when we found you. And you were set down as an innocent boy, unable to stop his own destruction.

“But I ran the intelligence department. I knew things. I _know_ things. I know how to save memories so they go away. I was able to save everything I knew of your crime.”

There is a pause. Castiel twists his hands in his lap. “What was my crime?”

Naomi let out a deep breath. “You felt bad for the children of earth. You saw the war and destruction, and you wanted to help them. Noble, but misguided.”

“What did I _do_?” demands Castiel, his voice lowering. He needs to know, he needs to know, he must know, he _must_.

“You—” her voice chokes. She brings her hand to her throat and tries again. “You—You--” Her voice breaks off, and she leans over, gasping for air.

“Are you okay?” asks Kevin. “Do you want water? I can get you water.”

“No,” says Charlie, frowning. “It’s not that. It’s angelic. She can’t tell us, there’s some kind of block against her telling us the truth.”

And then the kitchen explodes.

 

Hannah has had quite the day. For one thing, she’s locked Michael, Archangel and Lucifer’s Bane, in an angelic coat closet. For another, she’s rendered Michael, Archangel and Lucifer’s Bane, unconscious, before getting the hell out of heaven.

Now she’s . . . somewhere. There are trees, and a nice little stream rolling by. She closes her eyes and concentrates. She needs to find Castiel. That is her top priority, number one on her list of concerns. The other _ishim_ are closing in on him, she can feel it. She had sensed Metatron, Anael, Samandriel, and Balthazar when she met Castiel in that motel room. Now she can feel Gadreel as well.

She curses, rather unangelically. It’s not a very angelic day.

 

“What the—mmph!” Dean scrapes dust out of his mouth. His eyes sting, and his chest feels like it’s burning up. There are two new forms standing in the kitchen, plaster and dust swirling around them.

“I told you we should have worked on the landing,” grouses a heavy-set older man with deep bags underneath his eyes.

“Perhaps you would have benefited from a few more lessons,” agrees the tall man standing next to him. He has a firm, square jaw and prominent cheekbones.

Noami and Anael both shoot up, their eyes blazing and their hands filling with light. A moment later, Castiel stands, too. For a second, Dean misses Castiel’s presence beside him.

“Ah! Naomi!” says the older man.

“Metatron,” she replies icily. “What are you doing here?”

“Why, sightseeing! It’s beautiful on earth this time of year!” Metatron rubs a hand over his scruffy chin. “My, my, and _this_ handsome young man must be Castiel. I’ve been looking for you for a _long_ time.”

“You can’t have him!” shoots Charlie, standing and coming around to Castiel. “He’s our friend, and you’ll have to fight us for him.”

“Yeah,” agrees Kevin.

 _Sam_. Dean glances around for him, but he can’t find him. Shitty shit shit. On a cracker. Shit.

“Stand aside, Naomi,” says the tall man. “If you let us lock Castiel in hell, you can reascend to Heaven with us. We can all be free.”

“I led you once.” Castiel. His voice is small, but growing stronger. “I led you in heaven. I was your captain. What happened to us? Is anyone able to tell me what I did?”

Metatron chuckles. “You want answers? Come with us.” And in a flash, he’s standing directly in front of Castiel, clutching Castiel’s shoulder with one grubby paw.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, short chapters are the norm, not the anomaly. Mainly because I'm so busy that the only time I let myself write is Sunday. Didn't fail that math test, though! Quelle surprise. If you're enjoying the story, let me know! If you're not, it's totally understandable, because this plot is a little too complicated. Plus my continuity is probably sucky because I'm too lazy to reread previous chapters all the way through. Guys, next time, I'm going to write an outline! Writing without an outline has resulted in . . . this. While I enjoy angels randomly popping in and out of kitchens as much as the next girl, it's getting to be entirely too many surprise visits. There has to be some sort of order! *bangs gavel* Also, I have plans to get Dean and Cas alone together soon . . . I just need the right moment so the sparks can fly . . . 
> 
> If you're enjoying, please tell me! If you're not, tell me why! But, honestly, be gentle because I've just had the longest day. Break the bad news with cookies, please. If I've used the same turn of phrase seventeen times in a row, I'd like to be informed of that at the same time as receiving a platter of freshly-baked chocolate-chip goodness.
> 
> This note, much like my story, is getting much longer than anticipated. See you next Sunday!


	17. No chapter this week

I've been working really hard on this next chapter, trying to tie a few things together and make up for the fact that I didn't outline this story. Guys! The next story I write, it will be outlined from top to bottom!!! And I will not be stumbling around in the dark. Anyway, next week there should be a chapter that finally explains a few things. <3


	18. Chapter 18

I'm so sorry I haven't updated in so long--I had some computer troubles! I'll be back to updating every Sunday starting this Sunday!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, guys! So excited!!

There’s a flash of light. When it fades, the angels have all disappeared. It’s just Dean, Charlie, and Kevin.

“They’re gone!” yelled Charlie. “What the actual?”

“They’re gone,” agrees Kevin, rubbing a hand on his head. “What do we do now?”

Dean leaves both of them in the kitchen, his chest tight with worry. “Sam? Sam, where are you?” He goes around the ground floor, his heart pumping faster each moment he doesn’t find Sam. By the time he checks upstairs, Charlie and Kevin have joined him. They go out into the yard, but it’s empty. Sam is nowhere to be found.

 

Castiel wakes up cramped. Everything is tense and knotted, from the muscles between his shoulders to his hamstrings. He’s also tied up, which he should have been expecting. It’s too dark to make anything out, but he he’s lying on his stomach on something on cold floor that feels like stone.

“Hello, Castiel.”

He doesn’t recognize the voice.

“Hello,” says Castiel, or tries to say, but his throat hurts so much he can barely get out the  _ h  _ sound. He steels himself and manages to grit out, “Who are you?”

“You don’t remember me?” The voice sounds hurt. Castiel shrugs, though he knows whoever’s down here with him won’t be able to see it.

“It’s Samandriel.”

Samandriel. Samandriel. Who on God’s green earth is Samandriel?

“I was in your garrison,” says Samandriel. 

“Unh,” grunts Castiel.

“You really don’t remember me?” says Samandriel again. “I remember you.”

“Everyone  . . . remembers . . . but me,” Castiel manages. His throat spikes with pain, and he straighten out his neck, trying not put more pressure than he has to anywhere. His shoulders twinge uncomfortably, another reminder of the fact his hands are tied behind his back.

“I didn’t want to follow you,” says Samandriel. “Back in Heaven. I never wanted to join your fight.”

This would be more helpful if Castiel remembered anything about whatever the Hell happened in Heaven. He tries to say as much, but the pain stops him from opening his jaw. It seems he’s done talking, for now.

There’s a creaking sound, and a harsh voice rings out. “Didn’t I warn you about talking to prisoners, Samandriel?”

There’s a sheepish “sorry,” and the sound of a door closing. Castiel’s alone again.

He curls up closer to the wall--just as cold and as hard as the floor--and takes stock of everything he knows about his surroundings. He’s somewhere cool, somewhere dark, somewhere made of stone. It’s probably underground, but Castiel doesn’t want to jump to conclusions.

Who’s here with him? He recognized the second voice--it was Metatron, whom Castiel met at his house. Metatron . . . didn’t Metatron touch him? He did. He’d laid a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. And brought him here, then. And here there’s Samandriel, presumably an angel Castiel had betrayed back in Heaven, during the nebulous time he can’t remember. And the other angel who was with Metatron, he’s probably here, too. If he gave a name, Castiel doesn’t remember it.

“I have to survive,” Castiel whispers to the wall against his head, to the world, to himself. “I have to survive. I have to, I have to, I have to.” And he curls tighter into himself and tries, desperately, to think of a plan.

 

The house is empty. Hannah grits her teeth as she surveys the kitchen and then, in a fit of temper, smashes her fist through the dining room table. It shatters, and she mends without thinking.

“Oh . . .  _ Lucifer _ ,” she hisses. The more miracles she performs, the easier she’ll be to track. “Why can’t I do anything right?” she asks the empty room. “I’m trying so hard. Why can’t I find Castiel?” Just then, the kitchen door swings open and three very tired-looking humans trudge in. The one in the lead, a tall boy with green eyes and spiky hair, stops dead.

“Do you know where Sam is?”

She extends a hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Hannah.” 

The boy growls and bats her hand away. “You an angel?”

“Dean!” admonishes the girl. She shoulders him aside. “Sorry, he’s a bit testy. We can’t find his brother. But, um, yeah, what he said.  _ Are  _ you an angel?”

Hannah assesses the girl’s soul. Heaven-bound, no doubt about it. The other boy, too. This one, the one who hit her hand, she isn’t too sure about.

“How do you know what angels are?” she asks.

“Don’t give her any information!” hisses the boy who is not the green-eyed boy. “She could be with Metatron!”

If Hannah ever bothered to breathed, she would have stopped breathing.

“Metatron? He was here, then?” She can feel the after-effects of his presence, now that she’s looking for it. A bitter undercurrent, like BO and rotting paper.

“You with him?” says the green-eyed boy.

Hannah almost laughs. “Metatron? No.”

“In books there would be a riddle for us to tell you,” says the girl, “and if you got it right, we would know you were on our side.”

“And whose side  _ are  _ you on?” says Hannah.

“Who’s side are  _ you  _ on?” she returns.

Hannah thinks for a moment. It’s a complicated game she’s playing in heaven and on earth, but the really is only one answer. “Castiel. I’m on Castiel’s side.”

“Oh, good,” says the girl. “We are too.”

 

It’s as though his powers are being pressed against him, so tight that he can feel them but can’t grab them to  _ use  _ them. Castiel is utterly powerless. He can’t teleport, he can’t get rid of the ropes, he can’t doing  _ any _ thing. He feels utterly useless. No, he doesn’t just feel useless. He  _ is  _ useless.

The door opens again, and there are scraping sounds as someone shuffles toward him.

“How’s your throat feeling, Castiel?” Metatron.

“You know how it’s feeling,” mutters Castiel.

“What’s that? I didn’t hear you.” Castiel can feel Metatron’s rancid breath on his cheek, and he flinches away.

“Castiel, Castiel, Castiel,” murmurs Metatron. “Where’s your voice? Speak up.” When Castiel doesn’t, Metatron laughs. “You see, dear boy, this is an excellent example of  _ irony _ . Do you know what irony is?” He waits a beat before continuing. “Your voice got you into trouble before, so now I, the voice of God, am silencing you.”

“H-how . . . did . . .” says Castiel. He can’t say any more, but Metatron seems to understand because he replies.

“How did your voice get you in trouble? I’ve written quite extensively on it. Several tomes of work, all of them dedication to you, Castiel.”

Castiel remembers, fleetingly, an old typewriter, and the incessant clattering of keys. Metatron had loved that typewriter. As soon as the memory appears, it sinks away again, back to the bottom of Castiel’s mind.

Metatron is still speaking. “You are a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key. Winston Churchill. Loosely. Tell, me Castiel, do you know what it means to be righteous?” He doesn’t even make a show of waiting for an answer. “It means to be virtuous, Castiel, to be good. Are you a good man? Or boy, rather.”

Is he a good man? Castiel thinks as far back as his memory can go. He’s been devouring innocent people since before he could make himself a sandwich. There’s no way he could do that and still be good. And what about the crime he’s committed, the one no one will tell him about, the one so dreadful he was cast out of Heaven and hunted by a mob of angry angels who now want to cast him down to Hell?

He tries to say,  _ I am a good man. _

He tries to say,  _ I think I am good. _

He tries to say,  _ Please, God, let me be a good man. _

But his throat hurts too much to talk.


	20. You guessed it . . . not a chapter

Hey, so I'm in the middle of finals season right now, and between memorizing math equations and finishing up my English final, I don't really have so much time to write. I'll be back in two Sundays!


	21. On (permanent) hiatus

So this was kind of an exercise in fanfiction. It was me dipping my toes into the fanfiction world. And it didn't really go so well. For one thing, I didn't have a story planned out. I kind of just wrote down random stuff each week and published it as the next chapter. I wrote myself into a few corners. More than a few corners. I wrote myself into a box. And I decided that the strain this fic was having on me wasn't worth it. So I'm cutting it loose. I am working on a new Superhero AU fic, which I'm really excited about. And I definitely won't post it it until it is 100% completed! Leaving a WIP behind is driving me nuts, but hopefully I'll have a completed work to show for it. So, until then, <3 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in any fandom, so please be brutally honest! Or leave kudos, whichever! I'm going to update this fic every Sunday. I hate finding WIPs that haven't been updated since Sam still had baby fat, so don't worry, barring an asteroid, I will finish this story! I want to make new friends, so check out my [tumblr](https://fictionista654.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Nothing belongs to me except the story.


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